Provenance Unknown
by BAW
Summary: An old friend shows up and involves the guys in an international conspiracy; for once, it isn't an old friend of Jim's. Part of the "Jacob's Ladder" series.


Provenance Unknown ****

Provenance Unknown

By

BAW

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Disclaimer: This story is fanfiction, set within the universe of the television show **_The Sentinel_**; that television show--characters, settings, and concepts--are, naturally, held under copyright by PetFly, Inc., UPN, and other persons and entities. Their usage in this story is purely for amusement and as a composition exercise and not for profit. Counsel's opinion informs the writer that this falls within the limits of fair use. The writer claims copyright on all original elements to the story.

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Feedback: Please, to [web2575@charweb.org][1]; I need feedback to become a better writer--like it or hate it, please let me know. (I would especially like to know if I should pursue Jim's relationship with Maureen and if Alain should pay another visit.)

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Warnings: J/f; rated PG-13; OFC; OMC.

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Story Notes: This is a part of the Jacob's Ladder series, coming between **On The Threshold** and **The Sandburg Express**. For those who haven't read the rest of the series: Blair took up Simon's offer to enter the Academy and join the force; he is now known as Detective B. Jacob Sandburg. 

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Background Notes: Jacob's weapon-of-choice is a cane, which does double duty as his staff as Shaman of Cascade; anyone interested in the cane as a self-defense weapon should go to [www.canemasters.com][2]. There is a reference to Jacob taking correspondence courses from Wa_shington State University's _Criminal Justice Department; WSU's Extended Degree Program in the Social Sciences offers a B.A. in Social Sciences (interdisciplinary, covering Anthropology, Criminal Justice, History, Political Science, Psychology, and Sociology), Business Administration, Criminal Justice, or Human Development, and a B.S. in Agriculture-- [www.eus.wsu.edu/edp][3]. There are also references to _the Society for Applied Anthropology_; anyone curious about the Society should check out [www.sfaa.net ][4]or [http://anthap.oakland.edu][5].

Detective B. Jacob Sandburg, M.Phil., drove his Volvo up Prospect Street early one Saturday morning. He had been in Seattle for the past few days, attending a conference of the Society for Applied Anthropology. He had presented a paper on the Social Anthropology of Crime & Delinquency, and had participated in a panel discussion on Anthropological Issues in Criminal Justice Administration. This had been his first appearance at a professional anthropologists' meeting since the Implosion--as he called it--and was relieved that, on the one hand, nobody had cared to throw the events in his face, and that, on the other, his lack of academic affiliation had not been held against him. Nevertheless, he was glad to be back home.

As he pulled up to his usual parking space, he noticed that his partner's blue and white pickup truck was in its usual parking space. He considered for a moment, and decided that it was early enough that the older man would not be up yet. He knew that attempting to surprise the older man would be futile. Given his covert operations and police training, not to mention his Sentinel abilities, the attempt would be possibly dangerous. Some sort of food-offering would do much to alleviate Early Morning Grumpiness. Accordingly, he stopped at the bakery for a bag of freshly made blueberry muffins (still warm from the oven) before approaching the entrance to the building.

Parked next to the entrance was a motorcycle. Standing next to it was a tall, blond man in a leather duster, holding his helmet under his arm. He was a well over six feet tall, and muscular, but not ponderously so--rather, as a dancer or gymnast would be; his strawberry-blond hair came down over his collar, but was trimmed neatly; he had a beard styled to closely follow the line of his jaw. His face was thin, with high cheekbones. His prominent nose jutted out between green eyes. The man turned and smiled; the austere, almost monastic expression vanished, and the eyes softened from emeralds to the hue of spring leaves.

"Blair! I was just waiting until it was a decent hour to come up!"

"Alain! I've not seen you for--how many years has it been? But I go by Jacob now. Long story."

"Yes, I know some of it," said the other man softly, "I hear you're in law enforcement now."

"Yeah, that's right."

"May I come up?"

"Sure. What are you up to these days?"

"Oh, the same as before."

The two men mounted the steps to the third floor. Jacob handed Alain the bag of muffins while he fished out his key. As he opened the door, a smell of cooking wafted into the hall.

"Hey, Jim," called Jacob as he and Alain entered, "I'm back. And look who I found on our doorstep! Did I ever tell you about . . ."

He broke off suddenly. The person in the kitchen was not Jim.

She was a redhead. A tall redhead. A very tall redhead. At least 6'2. She was wearing a man's oversized T-shirt that revealed a pair of long, shapely, muscular legs, and scarcely concealed her . . . .OH MY!

The woman turned to face Jacob and Alain, let out a little shriek, pulled the shirt a little lower, and vanished up the stairs to Jim's bedroom. A moment or so later, Jim came down, tying his robe.

"Hi, Chief."

"Hi yourself. I don't have to ask how things went while I was gone."

"I thought you'd be home later."

"I left early. Thought I'd surprise you."

"That you did."

"Mutual."

"I suppose so," conceded Jim, turning to call up the stairs, "Maureen? Honey? Come on down. Don't be embarrassed."

Maureen came down the stairs. She'd slipped on a pair of Jim's sweatpants.

"Jacob, I'd like you to meet Maureen Fitzgerald. Maureen plays for the Pumas," said Jim, referring to Cascade's new WNBA franchise, "Maureen, this is Jacob Sandburg, my room-mate and my partner at work. This is a friend of Jacob's. . . ."

"Alain Reynolds."

"Pleased to meet you, Jacob, Alain. I was just making breakfast, I think there's enough for two more. Oh, I just remembered--I made sausages. I'm sorry Jacob, I didn't know Jim's roommate was . . .was. . . ."

"Jewish? That's OK, Maureen; I don't keep kosher."

"Good. If you fellows will set the table, I'll dish up."

"Please, Alain," said Jim, "take off your coat and join us."

Alain removed his coat. Under the long leather duster he wore engineer boots and leather chaps over jeans. So far about what one would expect of someone who arrived on a motorcycle. Above the waist, however, he was a bit of a surprise. Under a shawl-necked cable-knit sweater, he wore a black shirt with a round, white collar. Maureen gasped and blushed as red as her hair.

"Chief, you didn't mention that your friend was a . . ."

" . . .priest?" completed Jacob, "No, I didn't. Let me give you his titles in full. The Reverend Professor Alain Laurie Reynolds, Th.D., Fellow of the Royal Canadian Institute for Biblical Research and priest of the Anglican Church of Canada. He's a Biblical Archaeologist, which explains how I know him."

"Eyah," put in Alain," don't be going all prim and proper on me just because of this round collar. And Maureen, don't you be feeling embarrassed about showin' your legs to a priest. I'm Anglican, not Roman, so I'm allowed to appreciate an attractive woman's legs as much as any other unmarried thirty-five-year-old man. God made you, and He made you beautiful; there's no call for being ashamed of that. And I'm not _your_ pastor or confessor to be taking notice what you and yon gentleman were probably up to this night past."

"Thank you Professor, er, Father, er. . ."

"Call me Alain, won't you?"

The four of them sat down to breakfast. Maureen had made sausages, fried apples, scrambled eggs, and biscuits. She'd also squeezed orange juice and made coffee, and Jacob's muffins were not despised by any. When they were finished, she pushed back her chair.

"Thank you, Jim. I had a great time, and we'll have to get together again soon. I'll be late for morning practice if I don't hurry. I made breakfast, you gentlemen can clean up. I must fly!"

She bounded up the steps to Jim's bedroom two at a time. Shortly afterwards, she came back down the steps, dressed in a Pumas warm-up suit and carrying a small bag. She gave Jim a quick kiss, saying, "I'll call you," shook hands with Alain, murmuring a quick, "Pleased to meet you." She passed Jacob with a quick "later". Just before the door shut, there was a yelp from Jacob.

"Jim! Your girlfriend pinched my butt! Hard!"

"Well, Chief, she's got good company. Every woman at HQ has pinched you at least once. Some more than once. I think a couple of men would like to, except they know you'd break their arms."

Alain collapsed in a chair, shaking with laughter.

"Well, it seems things haven't changed all that much. Leaving the University, becoming a policeman, starting to go by his middle name. . .but I see that the Blair Jacob Sandburg I used to know is still there; women still love to squeeze him and cuddle him, just like a live teddy bear--perhaps I should say 'teddy Blair'?" he gasped between whoops, "Remember on that dig in Sinai, when the local Sheik's daughter. . . "

"Don't you dare, Alain!" growled Jacob, "don't you dare tell Jim about that."

"Oh, I don't know. Perhaps he should know about. . ."

Whatever Alain would have told about will never be known, because Jacob flung the dishtowel over his head.

"I'll wash, you'll dry. Jim can get his shower."

Afterwards, the three men sat on the balcony sipping coffee.

"So, Alain, how did you and Bl--Jacob meet?"

"Well, he was at Rainier, while I was in seminary at Anglican Theological College in Vancouver, which is affiliated with the University of British Columbia. Were you still and undergraduate, or were you working on your M.A.? Rainier had a joint expedition with UBC digging up a site in the suburbs of Alexandria, Egypt. My mentor at UBC was the head of the Biblical and Classical contingent, and he got me a place on the team. How young Mr. Sandburg got on the team, seeing that his interests are mostly New World Archaeology, I never did find out, but he was part of Rainier's contingent. Well, about halfway through our time there, we decided to take a break and take the train up to Cairo for some sightseeing and. . ."

Alain proceeded to tell a story involving antiquities smugglers, Islamic Fundamentalists, a ring of hashish dealers, the Cairo police, Interpol, and the KGB. It included a fight in a back alley of the Old Quarter, escape over several rooftops, hiding out in a Coptic convent, sneaking down to the Nile through the storm sewers, and a trip back down to Alexandria by _felucca_, disguised in native Egyptian dress.

"Chief, you never told me about this."

"It never came up."

"Chief, I've been beating myself up because your hanging around with me has put you in danger. Now I hear that you've been getting yourself mixed up in these things all along."

"You've always called me a trouble magnet."

"That's right, Jim. Blair never went looking for trouble," put in Alain, "but it certainly came looking for him. Remember that time on Cyprus, Jacob?"

"What happened in Cyprus?"

"Well, you know that Cyprus is partitioned into Greek and Turkish sectors. The northern third of the island is the Turkish Federated Republic of Northern Cyprus, while the southern two-thirds is the Republic of Cyprus. The latter claims the whole island, and the claim is recognized by every country in the world except for Turkey, whose army and navy support the Federated Republic's hold on the northern third. Theoretically, there is no going back and forth between the two. Well, again, on a joint UBC/Rainier expedition, Sandburg and I were together, representing our respective institutions and disciplines. You were working on your M.A. then, weren't you? I was doing graduate work at UBC. And, Jim, I'll give you three guesses who took it into his head to waltz across the border into the Turkish sector."

"Alain, be fair. The border was not well marked there. And is it my fault that I speak no Turkish, and those guards spoke no English?"

"Guess who had to rescue him? Me, that's who. Under cover of night I slipped across the border, cut the telephone lines, broke into the guardhouse, got him out, and back over the border. Then we borrowed a fast car and made for the Royal Navy base on the south end of the island, with the Greek Cypriots hot on our tails, to get him under the Queen's protection. Fortunately, the commander owed me a favor, else the Good Lord alone knows what might have happened to our friend here."

"The commander owed you a favor?" said Jim.

"Well, there was the incident in Beirut involving his son-in-law. . .but I can't really talk about that."

Jim's eyes narrowed.

"You aren't just a priest and an archaeologist. Let me guess. You were in the Royal Canadian Defense Forces, in their equivalent of the Rangers. What do they call it? I knew at one time. . ."

"No, I did some time in the R.C.D.F., but as a chaplain. This other is quite unofficial. It is a matter of having certain skills and having quite legitimate reasons for going to certain places, and when I am in these places finding people who need my particular skills. Like our friend here. I assure you, Jim, I am on the side of the angels."

Jim looked unconvinced, but Jacob broke in.

"In any case, Alain, what brings you to Cascade?"

"I was in Vancouver for the Inter-Testamental Studies Conference, and thought I'd come down to see you. Your cousin Mordecai was there too, Jacob; he wanted to come, but he had to go back to Ohio right away. I have some time before I head to Geneva for another conference, so. . here I am. Now, tell me about what you've been doing. I've been overseas for some time now, and even when I was on this side of the millpond, I was back East. I was told---although I cannot believe it--that you were expelled from Rainier for academic fraud; now I find that you're in law enforcement. I never thought that, even if you decided that an academic career was not for you, you'd end up in law enforcement, but you seem to be comfortable. But could you tell me how and why? This isn't just morbid curiosity on my part, Jacob; I'm concerned about you. I always liked you, even when you drove me bats."

"Well, Alain, I can't tell you everything. The whole story isn't mine to tell. I started working with the Cascade Police because I was interested in practical applications of anthropological theory; I was assigned to Jim because he was unpartnered at the time. We worked well together, and I found that all that training and experience in observing human behavior and interaction translated very well to police work. When circumstances forced me to leave Rainier, Jim and his Captain were good enough to get me into the Police Academy and fast-track me past the uniformed patrol stage to Detective status."

"If that's the way you want to put it, I suppose I'll accept it," said Alain, "I'm sure that, like Jim, I'll follow your guidance, and Jim will watch out for both of us."

There were twin hisses of indrawn breaths; neither Jim nor Jacob missed the implications.

"Chief, you didn't tell him. . .?"

"Jim, of course not!"

"Then how. . ."

"Jim, Jacob. . .how can I put this?" said Alain with a deceptive mildness; his tone then hardened, although it was no louder, "**_Never, ever make the mistake of thinking that I am stupid!_** There are people who think that a turned-around collar shuts off the brain, but you, Jacob, at least know me better than that." After a pause to let that sink in, he continued, "Blair Jacob Sandburg, I read your senior honors paper; I read your master's thesis. I know what you've been looking for most of your life. Then you abandon it, just like that? Not bloody likely! The only lie you told at the press conference is that the document in question was a lie.

"I've done some research on you two. When you were a consultant-observer, you functioned as a member of the Major Crimes division. You were as much Jim's work partner as any detective might have been. His effectiveness as a detective increased exponentially after you teamed up with him.

"I've asked some people and they've told me about you two--you live together, work together, and vacation together. I've known married couples who spend less time together than you two do! This is not normal for heterosexual men in their thirties; I know that Jacob's not gay, and after meeting Miss Fitzgerald, I'm fairly sure Jim isn't either.

"Jim, you are a Sentinel, and you, Blair--or Jacob, or whatever you want to call yourself--are his Guide. From what I understand from Blair's research, that relationship is as intimate as marriage, if not more so."

Jim seemed to pull himself inward, then he began to get up. And up. And up. He towered over Alain. Alain did not stand up, but he didn't cower in his chair either.

"Are you threatening us, Father Reynolds?"

"My dear Detective Ellison, there is no call for this. Please sit down."

"Jim, JIM," said Jacob, "this is Alain. He was my Blessed Protector long before you were. Sit down. There's an explanation."

Slowly Jim lowered himself to his chair.

"Now, Jim, first of all, Jacob is correct. If I had meant you or him any harm, I would not be having this conversation. If I had meant you harm, I would have done it already. The fact that we are sitting here, conversing like two civilized gentlemen means that neither of us intends ill towards the other. But if I can put the puzzle together, so can others. Have you thought of that?"

"Yes," said Jim, "and I am not ashamed to admit that I am a little nervous about it. We already had a spot of trouble from. . ."

"Lee Brackett?" asked Alain.

"You know about him?"

"Mr. Brackett and I have encountered one another now and again. He was once a good and honorable man, although I will not blame you if you don't believe me. Something happened to him, something terrible. No, I don't know what it was, although I've heard rumors."

"Alain, are you trying to warn us?" asked Jacob.

"No, Jacob. . .not specifically, anyway. I care about you, and because you and Jim are obviously close, I care about him too--I just wanted to let you know that you have my support and help, if you need it. Even if only as someone to talk to about things. Now, let's forget this, and tell me something about your life now. Jim, I remember when Blair was a student he always had at least six big projects on hand. Has Jacob slowed down any?"

"Slowed down?" laughed Jim, "no, I think he's sped up. As if his duties on the Force weren't enough, he tutors at-risk kids at the Police Athletic League, he takes correspondence courses in Criminal Justice through Washington State University, is constantly writing articles concerning applications of anthropological theories to law enforcement. Then he's gotten himself enrolled as a Court-Accredited Expert Witness in four subjects--anthropology, psychology, archaeology and history--which has had him running all over the State of Washington. Tell me chief, are you enrolled in all of the counties in Washington?"

"No, Jim, just in about half of them"

"Not to mention," continued Jim, "the Federal District Courts--and how many Tribal Courts?"

"A dozen or so."

"Then there's the guest lecturing. The instructors at the Police Academy and the Criminal Justice program at Cascade Community College are always wanting him to come speak to their classes. And when he's not doing any of that, he's at the dojang. He'll make Black Belt soon at this rate."

"Dojang? What Art? His legs are a little short for TKD."

"Something called hapkido. It involves a lot of rolling and falling. Spectacular bruises. Sandburg bruises easily, but heals quickly."

"Ah. Well, Jacob, you'll have to show me your stuff."

"Why don't we go down to the Police Gym this afternoon?" suggested Jim.

"Great," agreed Jacob, "Now, Alain, what have you been doing? I've not seen you in. . .five, seven years?"

"Several things. There are quite a few stories, but I'll start with. . . I don't know if you heard about the Baghdad affair."

"Baghdad?"

"Well," said Alain, "you may have read about it in the newspapers, but perhaps without my name mentioned. The U.N. Humanitarian Mission to Iraq? The one that went so horribly wrong? I was a part of the Canadian delegation, and. . . ."

When it was time for lunch, there was some discussion of transportation. Jacob suggested that all three go in the Volvo; Jim thought that he and Jacob should take the truck, with Alain following on his motorcycle.

"We want to _get_ there," Jim pointed out.

"Jim, the Volvo got me to Seattle and back."

"Let's not push our luck."

"JIM!"

They took the truck.

Alain insisted on taking Jim and Jacob to a Lebanese restaurant, where the owner embraced him like a long-lost nephew, brought them out a feast, and refused to take a cent in payment.

"A little matter I took care of for his brother in Beirut a few years ago," said Alain apologetically.

After returning to the Loft for a period of what Jacob euphemistically called 'horizontal meditation', they went to the Police Gym for Jacob to show Alain what he had learned in his hapkido classes.

At the gym, after some discussion, they decided rather than having formal sparring sessions, they'd run some self-defense scenarios, involving unarmed and armed attacks. Jim, of course, had his Ranger training to draw on; Blair his police academy classes and his hapkido studies, not to mention some bits of boxing and tai 'chi he had picked up here and there.

Alain was a bit of a surprise. On the one hand, he excelled at avoidance--it seemed that whatever blow from fist or foot or weapon was aimed his way, when it got to where it would have impacted, he simply was elsewhere. He'd sometimes leap, sometimes tumble, and even sometimes go down into a split, but most often he would turn his body a few degrees and slide one foot a little to one side or forward or back. Whenever someone would grab him, he would give a little wiggle and slide out of the grip as though he were greased. On the other hand, when he got aggressive he was even more impressive. He did not hit hard, but he had a knack for focusing on the most sensitive parts of the body. He was also very good at wrist-locks and throw-holds.

The three staggered back into their respective corners, panting. Suddenly there came the sound of two pairs of hands clapping. They looked over to see Brian Rafe and Henri Brown standing at the edge of the mat. Brian was dressed in a spandex bodysuit--black, with a geometrical design in red, suggestive of flames, up the right leg, while Henri wore a rather disreputable pair of sweatpants under a Cascade Police Academy tank top.

"Rafe! Brown!" called Jim, "this is an old friend of Sandburg's, Alain Reynolds, from Toronto."

"You looked pretty good out there, man," said H.

"Yeah," agreed Rafe, "You a cop in Toronto? A Mountie perhaps?"

"No. I'm a priest."

"Let me guess," said Brown, "you're in an inner-city parish, do a lot of pastoral calling in bad neighborhoods?"

"No. I'm an academic. I teach Biblical Archaeology."

"Then why and how did you learn to fight like that?"

"Just a hobby and a way to keep in shape, guys--nothing more."

The three senior detectives looked and the knife-scars on his arms and smiled, as to say, "If that's how you want it, we'll not push."

"Well," said Rafe, "for someone who does it as a hobby, you seem pretty good. You look like you could even teach us a few moves."

The two other detectives joined Alain and Jacob on the mat, while Jim went over to work on the Nautilus machines. Everyone was having a good time until Rafe tried a high kick to Alain's head. He ducked under his leg and swept the supporting foot out; holding the upper leg by the ankle, he dropped to the mat, pushing the legs apart. Rafe landed well, arching his back and slapping the mat, but was trapped, spread-eagled. Alain raised his free foot and began to bring it down in a hatchet kick, as Rafe called out.

****

"No CUP!" 

Alain's foot halted, the heel a mere quarter inch or so from Rafe's groin. Every man in the gym let out a sigh of relief. The women snickered.

"I think," said Alain, "that we've had enough."

"I may never live it down," said Rafe.

"What?"

"A priest mopping the floor with me."

"Rafe," said Jacob, "don't feel that way. Alain's been studying the martial arts since he was about three. Of course he's good. But you're good too; I never would have gotten through Self-Defense at the Academy if you hadn't given me that extra training. Jim tried to help, but he was so afraid of hurting me that he'd never push me hard enough."

As Jim wasn't yet finished with his weight routine, Alain offered to give Jacob a lift back to the Loft on the back of his cycle; Jacob promised to have dinner ready when Jim got home. ("Borrow a helmet from Traffic, Sandburg!" "Yes, Mom!") 

When Jim got back to the Loft, he was greeted the smell of Garlic Roast Chicken. Jacob had obviously gotten ambitious.

"Hey, Jim!" said the excited Jacob, "Maureen called. She got us three complementary tickets to the game tonight. The Pumas are playing the Charlotte Sting. And she's invited us to a party afterwards to meet the team. Eat up, or we'll miss the tip-off."

"I'm going to have to pass on the party," said Alain, "as I have to get up early tomorrow. I'm Guest Preacher at St. Thomas' Church--8:00 am and 11:00 am services, plus speaking to the Adult Forum in between. I'll tag behind on my bike, like this afternoon, then go to my motel afterwards."

"Motel, shmotel!" said Jacob, "You're staying with us."

"Well, if you're sure it won't be a problem. . . "

"Of course not," Jim put in, "and we'll come to the 11:00 service."

"I appreciate your hospitality, but please don't feel you have to come to the service on my account."

"No," put in Jacob, "I've never heard you preach. Lecture, yes--preach no."

"And it's been years since I poked my head inside a church," added Jim, "and its probably high time I did."

"Well, you're more than welcome, of course."

Jacob took the chicken out of the oven and transferred it to the platter, setting the platter in front of Jim, who carved it. It was a rather large chicken, but the three hungry men demolished it in short order. Jacob then ordered Jim and Alain into the kitchen to do the dishes, while he put fresh sheets on the futon and made up the couch for himself, despite Alain's protests.

"No, Alain, I'll be quite comfortable on the couch, and we'll be less likely to wake you when we come in if you're in the room. Now, those dishes won't wash themselves. Shoo!"

Alain washed while Jim dried and put away.

"Alain, if I'm being nosey, please say so, but as a Detective, anything odd nags me until I find a reason. Where did you learn to fight like that?"

"From my Mother."

"Your _Mother_?!"

"My grandparents were missionaries. Mom grew up in China--born in Shanghai, grew up in Hong Kong, then went 'home' to Canada for college. Grandma still lives in Taiwan. Mom started studying Wing Chung Kung Fu when she was a very little girl, and by the time she left China at nineteen she was quite proficient. She put herself through college teaching and still runs a school in Ottawa. My sibs and I grew up in the school, and started training before we even knew what it was. We just started imitating the big kids and. . . Well, my older brother runs a school in Montreal, my younger brother is going to take over the school when Mom retires, and my sister teaches hand-to-hand at the R.C.M.P. Academy. I'm kind of the oddball in the family--the only one who doesn't do it for a living; but I do keep it up, and have found it quite useful."

"Your sister is a _Mountie_?"

"Yes, my brother-in-law gets a lot of teasing about 'always gets her man'. We designed his bachelor party around that theme," said Alain with a reminiscent smile.

"You married?"

"No--not yet, at least. Hopeful. Dame Agatha Christie said that an archeologist makes a wonderful husband, because the older the wife gets, the more interesting he finds her. What about you?"

"Divorced. Not really looking to remarry, but if someone comes along....I think Sandburg feels the same way. For either of us, she'd have to be a very special woman, very understanding, because we're a package deal. Any woman either of us would marry would, essentially, be getting two husbands. Except of course for. . .for. . ," Jim added hastily, his ears turning slightly pink; he then recovered and added, "If only one of us marries, I hope it's Sandburg. I think he'd make a great Dad."

"Hey, guys!" called Jacob, "Let's get a move on, we'll be late for the game."

The basketball game was great fun. Their seats were excellent, and it was a good game. The two teams were fairly evenly matched; however, a free-throw at the very end of the last quarter won the Pumas the game. After the last buzzer sounded, they began to make their way down to the doors to the home team locker room. Shortly afterwards, an attendant came out and approached them.

"I was told," she said, "that I was to look for three men together--two tall and handsome, one short and cute. You must be them. Maureen sent me."

"Yes, we're here for her."

"She says that all the girls are decent now and you can come in."

The attendant held the door open for them. As each man walked past, she reached out and pinched. Still recovering from the shock, Jim almost didn't see the redheaded bundle of energy flinging herself at him.

"JIM!" shrieked Maureen, planting a huge kiss on each cheek, "you came! Girls, this is Jim Ellison. He's mine, so keep your hands to yourselves! These are his friends Jacob Sandburg and Alain Reynolds. I don't think they're taken."

The other players looked at Jacob and Alain much as a pride of lionesses would examine two gazelles.

"Er. . .ah. . .sorry, ladies. I have to get up early tomorrow. . .work, you know. Bye Jim, bye Jacob. Great game, Maureen, thanks for the tickets. Bye, ladies.

The door slammed behind him. Jacob, muttering "coward", turned from watching him go to be confronted by a Valkyrie--or the next thing to it. She was tall, muscular, and blonde. Jacob's eyes were at about her bust level.

"Jacob? I'm Helga Johanssen."

"Pleased to meet you. I'm Jacob Sandburg."

"Let's get a better look at you. Up you get," she said, picking him up and standing him on a bench, "Uff dah! You're heavier than you look. Yah der hey, ya got good muscles for a little guy," she added, squeezing and poking, "Hey, Letitia, feel this guy's arm!"

A goddess-like figure, who looked to have been carved from solid mahogany, squeezed his biceps appreciatively; she smiled, showing what seemed to be an extraordinary number of large, white teeth. Jacob rolled his eyes and looked over at Jim, who was receiving an attempted lingual tonsillectomy from Maureen. 

Later that night—or early the next morning, depending on your point of view—the pickup pulled up to Prospect Street. A somewhat bruised Jacob oozed out of the truck.

"Jim," he groaned, "you played football and basketball. Tell me, at team parties did you treat girls so. . . so. . ?"

"There are some women, Chief," replied Jim, "who think they're being 'liberated' when they're behaving like obnoxious men. They've left off being _ladies_, but haven't yet learned how to be _gentlemen_."

"I suppose it's a bit like the way drag queens so often look like cheap tarts. I'll look into the phenomenon--it might be a good subject for an article."

"Then you can put tonight down as field research."

"Ha. Ha. Ha."

Sunday afternoon, after church and brunch at a little place on the waterfront, Alain packed his bags to head back to Vancouver. He told Jim and Jacob that he'd be shipping his bike back to Toronto and flying to Europe for a conference in Geneva; after invitations to look them up the next time he was in Cascade, and assurances that he would do so, he cranked up his machine and roared off towards Points North.

"Well, Chief, you have some interesting friends."

"Yes, Alain is that. Do you know what's really significant about this, Jim? This is the first time since. . .the Implosion. . .that one of my old colleagues or mentors from. . .before. . .has wanted to spend any amount oftime with me. Oh, others--after the brouhaha died down a bit--called, or wrote, or e-mailed, and or would even say 'hi' if we met on the street; but Alain is the first one to really come to visit and renew our old relationship."

"Well, Chief, he is a priest. Healing and reconciliation are his job."

"But I'm not. . ."

"Not a Christian? Well, I'm not really a practicing one any more--although I do believe in God, and still even read my Bible sometimes--but I know that for any priest who was worth anything, that wouldn't matter. He saw that you were in pain, and he did what he could to help. A good priest--and I'm sure he's a _very_ good priest-- would no more be able to ignore that than a doctor or nurse could ignore you if you were bleeding."

"Then our friendship had nothing to do with it? It was duty?"

"Chief, it was duty that he did it; it was friendship that made him go out of his way to do it. A strange priest would have helped you if you had crossed his path; a priest who was your friend made a special trip to do it. I suspect that he came to that conference as an excuse to be in Cascade and look you up. Come on, let's get out of these glad rags and go shoot some hoops in the park."

****

Six Months Later, Cascade, WA (USA), Central Police Headquarters, Major Crimes Division:

"Sandburg! Ellison! My office!" came the Banks Bellow; the two detectives hastened to comply.

"Close the doors, gentlemen. I just got a notice from Interpol. Do you know 'the Reverend Professor Alain Reynolds' of something called 'the Royal Canadian Institute for Biblical Research'?"

"Yes, Captain; he's an old friend of Sandburg's, a Biblical Archaeologist; he spent a weekend with us a few months ago. Rafe and Brown met him , too. Why?"

"Well, your friend is apparently somehow affiliated with Interpol. They say he is or soon will be here in Cascade on something they call 'semiofficial business.' I'm not sure what that means. He's not undercover--he'll be here under his own name. But if you see him, you're not to make contact unless you have some official reason to do so, and vice versa. Tell Rafe and Brown the same."

"Do you have any idea what this is all about, Si--Captain?" asked Jacob.

"No. I was hoping that you did. Any ideas?"

"Well, Captain," put in Jim, "Reynolds is a Biblical Archaeologist, which means that he has legitimate reason for going to some volitile parts of the world, and he has an almost Sandburgian talent for walking into Situations."

"Hey! I resemble that remark!"

"Can it! In any case, this may have something to do with that. What Sandburg calls my 'Spidy Sense'--that Sentinel thing that makes me nervous and grumpy..."

"Grumpier than usual, he means."

"No comments from the Peanut Gallery!. . .when something big is about to go down---well, it hasn't gone off--at least not yet. Still, I'd like to circulate Reynolds' likeness, with a non-contact order."

"Good, see to it."

The two detectives left the Captain's office. Orders went out and contingency plans were laid.

"What do you think your friend's gotten himself into this time, Chief?"

"I don't know. I doubt he's working directly for Interpol, though. He's never worked for any sort of law enforcement or intelligence agency before, although he regularly reports any bits of useful information to the nearest Canadian or British consulate."

"Or British?"

"Dual citizenship; his father was British. Whichever is handier. He says, 'All for Queen and Country--and it's the same Queen in either case.'"

****

Six months earlier, Geneva, Switzerland:

Geneva is an interesting city. As a banking center, a center for trade, and the host city for a variety of international organizations, its streets are regularly filled with people of every description. In such a diverse ambiance, few noticed the pair walking along the edge of one of the squares; in a less cosmopolitan setting, however, they might have stood out.

The first man was remarkable only for his extreme nondescriptitude. Neither tall nor short, solidly in the middle of middle age, neither noticeably slim nor fat, moving neither like an athlete nor like a sedentary man. He was Caucasian, but neither so dark as to stand out in Denmark or Ireland, nor so fair as to look odd in Spain or Italy. Neither his clothing nor his bearing gave any indication of his profession.

His companion was not only a contrast, but was himself a bundle of contradictions; while nobody could have guessed what the first man was because there was no indication, it would be equally difficult to place the second because there were so many different indications.

He was nearly two meters tall, and—under a deep tan—was almost Scandinavian in fairness. His hands had the long, thin fingers of an artist or musician, but they were callused like a laborer's, although his fingernails were neatly trimmed and filed. His shoulders and chest were heavily muscled, like a weight lifter's, but he moved lithely, like a dancer or gymnast. And, to top all these other contradictions, he wore a priest's black shirt with a white band collar.

"It isn't," said the nondescript man, "as though we aren't sympathetic..." His English was without accent; only the lack one indicated that it was probably not his native language.

" . . .. But you have larger fish to fry," finished the priest, in the flat tones of the Great Lakes region of North America.

"That is about it. The world being what it is, your problem is a relatively small one."

"Not to us. And not in the long term."

"Believe me, I have tried to persuade my superiors."

"I know you have. _Si nequeo flectare deos superos, acheronta movebo."_

"What?"

"If your people can't—or won't—help me, then I'll have to go elsewhere. Even if it means doing things I'd rather not do, and associating with people I'd rather avoid."

"That's not a good idea. You may be crossing the line."

"You are bound to say that, of course. But I will be careful."

At this point they had drawn abreast of a recently demolished building. The priest went over to a pile of bricks and began to stack them in a geometric fashion.

"I do know what I'm doing," said the priest.

"Do you?"

"It isn't the first time I've done this sort of thing."

"This is the first time you've gone looking for trouble."

"I don't have to go looking for it. It finds me. Not surprising, given what I am, and where I go."

"These people are dangerous."

For reply, the priest held his hand, palm down, over the brick structure he had raised. His face went blank and his hand descended sharply down onto the structure. The bricks ceased to exist, and were replaced by a heap of red dust and small fragments.

"I am dangerous. Or can be."

"You know what you're doing. The only way I could stop you would be to lock

you up."

"I wouldn't try that. You might not like the consequences. No, I'm sure you would not like the consequences."

From anyone else, that would be considered a threat; from him, it sounded like a simple statement of fact, as another person might say, 'Those dark clouds look like a thunderstorm brewing.'

"You are probably right. Good luck, then."

The nondescript man seemed to vanish. The priest contemplated his handiwork. He then moved on to the city park, where he sat down on a bench, seeming to be thinking hard about something.

"Excuse me, Father."

A young woman was standing in front of him. She seemed upset about something.

"I have to talk to someone. I don't know what to do. It's all so confusing. It really isn't my business, but in a sense it's everybody's business, but if I tell what I know. . although I don't really know anything. . . it just all seems so queer. . . and . . . and . . ."

"That's what I'm here for, my daughter. What's the matter?"

A few hours later, the priest entered a small hotel in one of the less respectable parts of the city. In spite of the neighborhood, the hotel itself seemed to be well maintained. The proprietress welcomed him rather effusively.

"Your room is ready, Father. I've had your bags taken up. It's the Suite, but I'm charging you only for a single."

"I wish you wouldn't. I don't really need the suite."

"Nonsense. I couldn't put you in an ordinary room, not after what you did when my Gunther got into that trouble in Cairo. I'd let you have the room for free, but the law will not allow it."

"I really didn't do anything special. I did what anyone would have done under the circumstances."

"Now, don't go all modest on me. Hans! Show the good Father to his room. I'll tell Anna to send him up something."

Some time later, after eating the light meal Anna had sent up, the priest considered his options. The matter that he had discussed with the nondescript man could not be addressed just yet. However, what the young woman in the park had told him was very much on his mind. He had been able to help her with what had been bothering her; but she herself had not realized all the implications of what she had seen and heard. The nondescript man was in a position to do something about it, but the Seal bound the priest—he could not tell what he had heard. But, if he could confirm it independently . . . He took out a pencil and began to write. After a while, he stopped, read over the pages, and, nodding to himself, ripped the pages into tiny shreds. He then changed into a black turtleneck, black twill trousers tucked into black boots, black leather gloves, a black silk scarf wrapped around his head. He then put a wide leather belt around his waist, which he hung with certain items. He then opened the window, stepped out onto the roof, and seemed to melt into the night.

Some hours later, he returned the same way. The room seemed as before, but some subtle disarray of his things indicated that someone had been there. The wastepaper basket was empty. He had stayed there often enough to know that the chambermaid did not tidy up late at night.

"Well," he said under his breath, "If they pieced together my notes and followed them . . . . .they've gone off on a snipe hunt!"

He took a small tape recorder from under his shirt, removed the cassette and put it in an envelope, which he addressed. He rang the bell, and gave the envelope to Hans, with a generous tip and instructions to take it to the bar of a certain hotel, and to give it to a specific bartender. He then made his evening devotions and went to bed.

****

Two weeks later, London, England; a room in the British Museum:

This was a meeting that was not supposed to be happening; no scholarly journal had announced it. There had been no call for papers. No major hotels had been booked to host it. Yet in attendance were some of the most distinguished names in the archaeology of Southwest Asia: Assyriologists, Biblicists, Paeleoanthropologists, Classicists, Byzantiologists, Egyptologists, and other specialists. There were also specialists from related fields: Museologists, Historians, Art Historians, Archivists, and Librarians. A well-placed bomb would have created a heavy blow to the academic world.

"We see it again and again," said a Museologist, " 'provenance unknown...'provenance unknown.' And we all know what that means."

"Antika!" said an elegantly dressed Englishwoman. She made it sound like a

swear word. To her it probably was.

"They raid our sites during the off season. They plunder sites we haven't gotten to. They bribe our local workers," said a stout, middle-aged German.

"It is a tragedy. History is made up of bits of information that you archaeologists painstakingly gather; these people who rape the sites for dealers and private collectors don't document or keep records. If the artifacts ever get to a proper museum we can date them by stylistic grounds, but where they came from, what was found with them, all these things which we need to know. . . .the information is gone." This from an Italian.

Everyone had the same thing to say, in varying ways—everyone acknowledged the problem, but nobody had a solution.

"What of the Authorities?" said someone.

"Yes. Father Reynolds was going to talk to someone about that."

The tall priest rose.

"As you know, I have been meeting with officials from various countries' Ministries of Justice, as well as Interpol, UNESCO, and other international agencies. They all have the same story. They sympathize, but they have other things that have higher priority. The drug trade; terrorism; cyberfraud; piracy; trade in endangered species. Archeological crime is rather far down the list; even intellectual property is ahead of us."

"The illegal antiquities trade generates as much money as some of those things," said someone.

"True. But they don't see it that way."

"My son," said an elderly Jesuit, "we know of some of your . . . other interests. Can you help?"

"By calling I am a priest; by profession I am a Biblical Archaeologist, specializing in the Intertestamental period. What do you mean, 'other interests?'"

"A brother of my Order tells me that there is a tradition in your family of certain . . . practices. Is this not true?"

Alain nodded.

"You have an unusual combination of skills. Your work takes you to parts of the world where . . . things happen. You have become involved in . . . certain things. That Swiss boy in Cairo, for example. If you hadn't done what you did, he might never have been heard from again. And what about the Australian hostages in Beirut? Then there was that errand you ran for the Archbishop. You vanished in Amman, were spotted almost simultaneously in Baghdad and Tehran, and then turned up in Athens where you delivered a. . . . certain package to an official of the Canadian embassy."

Every eye was on the Jesuit. When he stopped speaking they slowly turned to the tall blond man at the end of the table, who was blushing fiercely.

"Distinguished colleagues, I give you the Reverend Father Alain Reynolds, Th.D.—priest in the Anglican Church of Canada; fellow of several learned societies; Biblical Archeologist; expert martial artist; freelance . . . international covert agent, I suppose is the best word for it. Do I have it all?"

"Just about. However, that last is unintentional. Because of my work, I was on the scene. Those people needed my help, and I was in a position to give it. You know that, given my calling, I am constitutionally disinclined to refuse someone who needs help that I can give."

"What you did in Beirut went a little beyond that. How did you track down where they were being held, get past the guards, free the Australians, and get them to the harbor? Most people would have thought that such an operation would need a major strike force and be at the cost of a great deal of bloodshed. You did it by yourself without a shot fired. How?"

"Subtly."

"Well, do you think that you could help your profession?"

"Yes. But I won't tell you what I'm going to do. 'Three can keep a secret, if two are dead.'"

It is difficult for a distinguished scholar, even in a somewhat obscure field, to disappear. This is especially true when that scholar's physical appearance is in any way unusual. Yet, after the archeological conference in London, the Reverend Doctor Alain Reynolds of the Royal Canadian Institute of Biblical Research did just that. There were rumors. He was dead. He had lost his mind. He had been kidnapped by terrorists. (Some people who knew of his other skills said to that, "Poor terrorists!") Some who knew of his covert activities thought that he had 'bitten off more than he could chew' and was languishing in some dark cell in some obscure Middle-Eastern state.

There was a rumor out that he had, for some reason, gotten burned out on archaeology and the ministry of a scholar-priest, and was going into some sort of pastoral ministry. In Cascade, Washington, USA, a certain police detective with an unusual academic background heard this last rumor, and pricked up his ears.

****

Cascade, Washington, USA, present:

In one of the less respectable neighborhoods of Cascade, there was what had once been an elegant hotel. Hanging over the brass-fitted revolving door was a familiar blue-and-white sign: _"The Episcopal Church welcomes you to. . .St. Elizabeth's Urban Ministries Center." _Inside the facilities had been remodeled to serve the needs of the district. What had been the large dining room was now a soup kitchen. The various parlors had classrooms that taught various skills, or tutoring centers where schoolchildren could get help, or just a quiet place to study. The ballroom had been refitted as a chapel. The spa was now a day shelter, where the homeless could bathe and wash their cloths. Most of the guest suites were unused, although a few had been converted into apartments for the few paid staff members. (The 'pay' was so low that free housing was a necessary 'perk.') There were plans to devote some of the floors to various purposes, but there was not yet enough money to carry any of them out. Fortunately, there was an endowment, enough to cover the maintenance of the building, but not much more. The operating expenses were entirely funded through donations.

There was a new priest at the mission. Nobody knew where he had come from. He was rumored to be Canadian. The uniformed police officers who patrolled that neighborhood made a point of getting a good look at him. What they saw made them immediately call the newest detective at Central Precinct.

"Jim, he's here," said Jacob, hanging up his phone, "He's working as a mission priest at St. Elizabeth's Center. Which does not make sense; he's a scholar--his ministry has never been about inner city rescue mission work."

"Well, Chief, your career-path hardly led here. Perhaps something happened to him that made him burn out on teaching. Anyhow, our orders are for a watching brief--let him come to us."

A few days later, Jacob looked up from his work and saw a tall blond man in a cheap black suit and a Roman collar. The man's eyes met his; polite, uninterested, stranger's eyes. Jacob signaled Jim as Alain walked over, without a further glance their way, to Megan Connor's desk.

"Inspector Connor?" he asked.

"Aye, padre, what can I do for you?"

"Of the Royal New South Wales Constabulary, seconded to this department?"

"Yes, padre," she replied, slightly annoyed, "What can I do for you?"

"I need to speak to you privately."

"Come into the conference room."

As they left, he looked at Jim and pulled on his ear. Realizing the Canadian priest's intention, Jim locked onto Megan's perfume, piggybacked his hearing, and tracked them into the conference room.

"Inspector Connor, " he heard Alain say, "I have certain papers. It is vital that they get to the Canadian Consulate, preferably today, no later than tomorrow. I can't be seen going there myself; I'm asking you to do it."

"Why me?"

"You are one of the few people with no direct connection to me whom I can trust."

"Why trust me? You don't know me."

"You are an Officer of the Queen's Peace & Justice; that's how I can trust you. Now, on your honor as a Queen's Officer, you must promise not to look inside this envelope. There is a name written on it. Give me time to leave the building and get well away, then go to the Consulate. When you get there, ask for the person whose name is on the envelope. Do not give it to anyone else, no matter what they say. Do you understand?"

"Yes, padre."

"God save the Queen!"

"God save the Queen!"

Connor returned to the bullpen. There was a manila envelope in her hand and a stunned expression on her face. Alain went past the doors to the bullpen and gave the 'thumbs up' signal to Jim through the glass; he then headed for the elevators and presumably left the building. About ten minutes later, Connor went into Captain Banks' office.

"Captain, I need to take the rest of the day off."

"Are you ill, Connor?"

"No, sir. Something has come up. Something that has to do with my. . .with an oath I swore long before I became a member of this unit."

"Do you need backup?"

"No, sir. I don't think it'll be dangerous. In any case, I should not involve any American citizens in this matter--especially not in any official capacity."

"All right, then. Be careful."

"When am I not?"

"You really don't want me to answer that, Connor, do you?"

"No sir. By your leave, sir."

"Go. . .go," said the Captain, making shoo-ing motions. As Connor left his office, he looked at Jim and mouthed, "Follow her!"

Jim and Jacob gave her a head start and complied. The trip to the Consulate was uneventful, although Connor took a highly convoluted route. As Connor entered she flashed something at the Mountie on guard duty, too quickly for even the Sentinel to see what it was. As the two Cascade detectives tried to follow her, the red-tunic guard blocked their way.

"Excuse me, sirs," he said with typical Canadian politeness, "but may I inquire as to your business in the Consulate?"

Jim flashed his badge.

"I am sorry, sir, but your jurisdiction stops at these steps. Please state your business."

"Our business is that--ours. Not, with all due respect, Constable, yours."

"I'm sorry, sir, but that is not an acceptable answer. I can't let you in right now. If you could come back tomorrow, or the next day. . .?"

"Look, you overgrown Boy Scout. . ." began Jim. Jacob laid a hand on his arm.

"Jim, please. The Constable is just doing his job. You don't want to create a diplomatic incident, do you? Come on, let's go."

Jacob practically dragged Jim around the corner. Once there he rounded on him.

"What was that all about? You know that he had every right to bar us from the Consulate. Was it a Sentinel thing? Is he one--was it the territorial imperative?"

"No. I listened in on Connor and Reynolds. Something's going on. And in any case, Connor's not Canadian--she's as much out of her jurisdiction as we are."

"What did they talk about?"

"Reynolds wanted her to deliver some papers to someone at the Consulate. There was something about his needing a Queen's Officer to do it."

"There you are. 'The sun never sets,' and all that. It isn't our business--hasn't been for nearly 230 years. Let it go."

"Cheese it! Here she comes."

Connor came out of the Consulate, empty-handed. She greeted the Mountie, turned and walked towards her two American colleagues. They ducked back around the corner and flattened themselves into a niche. As she walked by, she murmured out of the side of her mouth, "Hi, Jimbo; hi, Sandy," and kept on going.

"Well!" said Jacob, in his best Jack Benny manner.

"There's no getting around our Megan--at least it's a long walk!" said Jim admiringly.

A few days later, Jim and Jacob were sitting in the Loft one evening. Jacob was working on an Applied Anthropology article while Jim was watching a basketball game. The phone rang and Jacob answered it.

"Ellison-Sandburg residence. . . .Yes. . . .Isn't that for Uniforms to take care of? . . .Oh, us specifically? . . . Yes, we'll be there. Send some uniforms as backup. We're on our way."

He hung up.

"Jim, we're needed . . ."

"Shall I put on a black leather jumpsuit?"

"Ha. St. Elizabeth's. The caller asked for us specifically. I think Alain needs us," said Jacob, strapping his weapon back on.

A few minutes later, the pair entered the former grand hotel. A young woman at the desk called to them.

"Detectives Ellison and Sandburg? Father Reynolds got called out; a kid came and said that some men had attacked him and his mom. He told us to call 911, ask for you two specifically, and when you came to give you this," she said, handing him a woolen scarf.

"Did he say where he was going?"

"No. He said you'd know."

Jim examined the scarf, and noticed a distinctive smell, a mixture of incense, Tiger Balm liniment, and some sort of cologne. He remembered that smell associated with Alain.

"C'mon, Chief. After me."

They turned and ran back onto the street. Jim swiveled his head, sniffing the air. He then took off to the right, then turned down a side street. The soon came to a small, shabby four-plex. Even Jacob could hear the sound of a fight in upper left unit.

As they approached the building, the door to the unit in question flew open and a man came stumbling out onto the balcony as though he had been violently thrown. He careened off the railing like a pinball, tripped over something, and tumbled down the rickety stairs. Jim and Jacob ran over to where he lay. He was a large man in his early thirties, wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and a T-shirt with a rather vulgar graphic. He was unconscious, but alive, and reeked of beer and marijuana smoke. As they started for the stairs, there was a loud yell and someone came crashing through the window of the front room. He landed on the balcony floor, turning the fall into a roll, and came to his feet. It was Alain; he wore his leather duster and had a baton in his right hand. He gave the baton a twist, and it turned into a set of nunchaku. Giving Jim and Jacob a little wave, he then jumped back in through the window.

Jim and Jacob swarmed up the stairs and through the door. They came into the living room. All of the cheap furniture was overturned or broken. There were about a half-dozen men of a similar type to the one who had fallen down the stairs. Each was either unconscious or nursing disabling injury. A woman cowered in a far corner with a child. In the middle of the room was Alain, swinging his nunchaku. Circling him were two more men, one armed with a knife, the other with a length of chain. Alain was keeping them off him; they were attempting to get him to engage with the one while the other took him from behind, but he was too skilled to let them get away with it. Whenever one started to attack he'd put the spinning nunchaku between him and the attacker, and then spin to confront the other as he started to move in.

"Cascade Police! Drop your weapons!"

Chain-man threw his weapon at Jim. Jacob extended his cane, caught it, and flung it to the ground. He then hooked chain-man's neck with the crook of his cane, pulling him onto a side-kick to the belly, following through by using the cane to lever the man to the floor, face first, where he was easily cuffed. Knife-man charged Alain, who used the nunchaku to trap the knife-wrist and bend the arm back. As soon as the man was unbalanced, Alain put a little additional pressure on the trapped wrist and swept the man's ankles, dropping him flat on his backside. Applying a little extra pressure, he forced the man to crawl over to Jim, who cuffed him

Statement of Fr. Alain Reynolds of St. Elizabeth's Urban Ministry Center:

__

At approximately eight fifty-two p.m. Tommy Jenkins, age 10, came into the mission in a highly agitated state. He said that the apartment occupied by himself and his mother was the object of a home invasion, and that he had escaped out the back window and climbed down the drainpipe. I directed the desk-attendant to call the police, but knowing that the response time was slow, I decided to go to the Jenkins house and see if there was anything I could do. I directed Tommy to remain at the Mission, but he refused to do so.

Upon arriving at the Jenkins residence, I heard sounds of a struggle. Climbing the stairs to the apartment as quietly as I could, I peered in through the window. Although the blinds were drawn, I could make out enough around the edges to see that several men were attacking Ms. Jenkins. I formed the opinion that they had probably already injured her, and that they intended to do more, possibly rape or even murder. Knowing that the police were on their way but would probably come too late, I decided to intervene.

I entered the apartment through the front door, which was hanging open. Upon entering the room, I called out to the men, informing them that the police had been summoned, and urging them to cease what they were doing. They attacked me and I defended myself, while Tommy ran to his Mother. I was able to hold them off until the police arrived, at which time I assisted the officers in subduing the invaders.

Jim, Jacob, and Alain were in the latter's office at St. Elizabeth's. The uniforms had taken the ruffians away, and the Jenkins family was settled for the night at the mission.

"Well, Alain," said Jim, "I think we are entitled to a bit of an explanation."

"Am I speaking to my friends Jim and Jacob or to Detectives Ellison and Sandburg?"

"Both."

"Does the word antika mean anything to either of you?"

Jim looked puzzled, but Jacob's eyes narrowed.

"What does that have to do with your being here?" he asked in a tone of cold fury.

"Time out!" said Jim, "Translation, please!"

"Jim, antika refers to the international underground trade in artifacts, especially from the Middle East. We've seen some of that involving Central and South American artifacts, but the illicit antiquities trade in Middle Eastern goods is even bigger."

"I'm not allowed to tell you everything," said Alain, "but I have reason to believe that a major ring is operating through Cascade. I promised to look into it for. . .well, never mind for whom. I gave out that I was burnt out on archaeology, and that I was going into a totally different sort of ministry. I 'resigned' from the Institute--actually, took a leave of absence--and wangled this posting to St. Elizabeth's. I don't know if anyone in the ring knows me, but in case anyone does, I have a valid reason for being here that has nothing to do with archaeology. I don't think anyone knows my personal connection to you two, so I didn't want to make contact until you had some official reason to come here. I knew that one would arise soon enough."

"We knew you were here. Interpol told us."

"Yes, I might have guessed."

"What was that 'Queen's Officer' thing you pulled with Inspector Connor?"

"Oh, that's easy. It was legitimate, but it had nothing to do with why I'm here. I passed through Chicago on my way here, spent a couple of days there. While there I got mixed up in something involving . . .well, I'd better not give you the specifics, but I ended up working with the RCMP attaché at the Consulate in Chicago, and the Chicago PD detective he works with--now there's an oddball pairing for you! The Mountie's a real 'Dudley Do-right', and the Chicago detective is about the scruffiest-looking man I've ever met this side of Skid Row. They seem to work well together, though. Be that as it may, there were some documents that had to get to the Consulate here in Cascade, and could not go through ordinary channels--I offered to take them. Once I got to Cascade, I realized that I could not be seen near the Consulate, and I had heard about the Australian Inspector at Major Crimes. I decided to kill two birds with one stone--get those papers to the Consulate and let you see me to know I was here." 

"What do you want us to do?"

"Tomorrow, call me down to the station, ostensibly for something to do with tonight's activities. I'll tell you all the evidence I have. We'll probably want to bring your Captain in on this, and perhaps a few others--but as few as possible, please."

The next day Alain came down to the Central Precinct and met with Jim, Jacob, and Simon in the latter's office. They decided that--at least for now--nobody else needed to know what was going on. Alain brought a large portfolio of documents, which he showed to the three detectives.

"Well, padre," said Simon," I certainly am impressed. You've gathered an impressive amount of evidence of a worldwide network of underground antika dealers, and have organized the evidence very well. If archaeology ever palls, you'd make a great detective."

"Actually, archeology is a form of detective work, Captain. Each is a matter of taking fragmentary evidence and projecting from it a picture of what happened in the past. In your case the recent past, in mine the distant past. The late Dame Agatha Christie based three of her novels and several short stories partly or totally on archeological digs, you know, and her second husband was an archaeologist."

"Well," said Jim, "perhaps I should grow a mustache and wax the points?"

"How'd I look with a bag of knitting and a shawl?" put in Jacob.

"Actually, if I remember correctly, it should be the other way 'round. The books say that Miss Marple was tall and M. Poirot was short," laughed Simon, "but be that as it may, what makes you think that the ring is centered here in Cascade?"

"Process of elimination, mostly, Captain," replied Alain, "these documents indicate that it is somewhere on the west coast of North America, and most probably in a port. For various reasons I've eliminated several places, and I think it's in the Pacific Northwest.

"That still leaves a great many places besides Cascade."

"Yes, but statistically, more of that sort of thing goes on here than in some of the other candidate ports. People like me and like Jacob here are called by some 'trouble magnets', but if places can have that label, I think Cascade is one of them. That may be why a certain ancient phenomenon has had its first modern manifestation here--this place needs it. And here are some documents which point to Cascade. Note the underlined name." 

"Who's this 'Andrew Hamilton'?" asked Simon, who then mouthed, "He knows?"

"I know him," said Jacob, shooting Simon a look which said, 'I'll explain later.', "he's a curator at the Cascade Museum. But what does he have to do with this? The ancient Near East is not his field, he's into East Asian stuff."

"And you were into Central and South American Archaeology, Jacob, but you went on some Near Eastern digs," replied Alain, "and his name has come up more than any single person's in connection with all the events. He's never been a suspect or a victim, or a direct witness--but he's always been there, or nearby. There's a saying: 'Once is chance, twice is coincidence, three times is conspiracy.' The matter has gone far beyond conspiracy. Hamilton is very close to the center of the ring, if not at the center. The evidence is both vague and circumstantial, but it is there."

"There's one problem from our point of view," put in Simon, "you have no evidence--even circumstantial--that he's done anything in Cascade. If he's involved, most of the overt acts took place in other States, and even abroad. We might get him on conspiracy if a good amount of the planning took place here, but. . ."

"Don't worry, Captain. If we get the evidence, I can arrange to lure him into the proper jurisdiction and alert the authorities," said Alain, "and will do so with pleasure. This has been going on long enough. Getting rid of him will not stop the illicit antiquities trade, but it will put a significant dent in it."

"I am extremely nervous," said Simon, "at having a foreign civilian conducting an unofficial investigation in my city, especially one that may result in having a citizen kidnapped. . ."

"Captain, did I say anything about a kidnapping? I promise you this: if Mr. Hamilton leaves Cascade as a result of my investigations, it will be either of his own free will and accord or because of an official extradition request. I am not a bandit, outlaw, renegade, or bounty hunter; the Bible enjoins submission to duly constituted secular authority, and as a priest I would set a poor example to my flock if I did not do so. And yes, I know how revoltingly pious that sounded, but it is, nevertheless, true. Now, gentlemen, if we are all on the same page, I will continue with my investigations. I will keep you informed of whatever I find out. I would ask that if you have occasion to arrest Mr. Hamilton on some other matter, that you inform me either before or just after. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

"And, I would ask also that if your snitches let fall anything of interest to me, that you would pass the information along, if it would not compromise your investigation? For my part, if I learn in the course of my work at St. Elizabeth's of any illegal activities, I will let you know if I can do so without violating the Seal. Is that agreeable?"

"That's a little harder. We can hardly give the details of a police investigation to a civilian; particularly a non-citizen civilian. . ."

"I can promise to keep anything you tell me confidential if such keeping would not conflict with my duty to my God or to my Queen, nor would I ask or expect you to tell me anything that would compromise any of your investigations. If I felt that anything you did tell me was something Her Majesty's representatives in Cascade needed to know, I would tell you so and try to persuade you to tell them yourselves, and that I would not pass it along without telling you that I was about to do so. This is the same courtesy you extend to Inspector Connor, who has even more reason to pass information along to Her Majesty's ears than I do, is it not?"

"Yes," conceded Simon uncomfortably, "but Inspector Connor is. . ."

"A sworn officer of Her Majesty's Peace and Justice. My duty to inform the Crown is only that of a citizen and subject; you know that a Queen's Officer's duty is more stringent."

"Point taken."

"Good. Here is a summary of my evidence against Hamilton. I'll be in touch."

__

"The days passed swiftly,

One by one.

I fed the ducks, reproved my wife

Played Handel's Largo on the fife--

And took the dog a run."

"What?" said Jacob to this extraordinary quote.

"Nothing has happened!" said Alain, "I'm tutoring kids, teaching the GED classes, counseling, making pastoral calls, conducting services, teaching a ladies' self-defense class. . ."

"I hadn't heard about that."

"Yes, and a 'kiddie karate' class too. If I really had gotten fed up with academic life and decided to go into this sort of ministry, I'd be happy. I'm good at it and I'm accomplishing a great deal, but nothing has happened concerning my real reasons for coming Cascade. I'm not sure how much longer I can push my secret leave from the Institute."

"Have some more lasagna," said Jim, "Do you really want to go back? I mean, you seem happy here, everyone seems to like you. Jacob here make the transaction out of academic life--or if you're really committed to that, couldn't you get a teaching job here?"

"Rainier is the only school in Cascade that would hire a Biblical Archaeologist, and they don't need one. No, unless something happens by the end of the month, I'll have to think about going back to Toronto."

"There is something we'd like to show you," said Jim, pulling out a file, "do you recognize this man?"

"That's Abdullah Selim; he was an antiquities dealer in Amman a few years ago. The Jordanian Cultural Ministry suspected him of being involved in smuggling, but they never could prove anything. I posed as a buyer in one of their sting operations, but nothing came of it. He vanished directly afterwards."

"We know him as Ali Jusuf, supposedly a Syrian national. Not suspected of anything specific, but seems to be living fairly well with no visible means of support."

"Have you looked into him?"

"There's a limited amount we can do without direct evidence that he may have done something," put in Jacob.

"As police officers, yes. But I'm a private individual. If I go certain places, and ask certain questions, and gather certain information--well, there's nothing to stop me, is there? And if I as a responsible member of the community turn the evidence I have gathered over to you. . ."

"Well," said Jim, "we really can't ask you to do something like that."

"OK--you aren't asking me to."

"And we must remind you about the law of trespass and similar matters."

"Take that as read."

Three days later Alain walked into Major Crimes and placed a plain envelope on Jim's desk, unsealed. Jim opened it and found a sealed contribution envelope for St. Elizabeth's.

"I called on 'Selim' or 'Iusuf'--whatever you want to call him--to solicit a donation for St. Elizabeth's. In this," said Alain, "you will find a check made out to St. Elizabeth's. He held it down with one hand while signing it with the other, then handled it with both hands while putting it in the envelope. I never touched it. His hands were none too clean at the time, and I'm sure he left fingerprints. Any use to you?"

Running the fingerprints showed that yes, indeed Jusuf was indeed Salim, and that Salim was wanted for antiquities smuggling in Egypt, Jordan, Israel, Syria, Turkey, Iran, Iraq, Lebanon, Cyprus and Greece. Of course, the INS wanted him for being in the US under false pretenses; the embassies of the countries concerned requested extradition. However, three days later, when the interagency task force came to his house, he was found dead, stabbed with a carving knife in his kitchen. There were no signs of forced entry, but there were signs of a struggle; the dead man had a second carving knife clutched in his hand, the mate of the one protruding from his chest. There was blood on it--not his own.

A search of the house discovered the supplies and equipment to take plaster and wax casts; there were also finished wax or plaster casts of several artifacts. Of the artifacts themselves, however, there was no trace.

Major Crimes had not been a part of the raid; smuggling comes under Vice, and once the man was found dead, the case was turned over to Homicide. However, the archaeological aspects of the case called for the investigating officer to ask for the assistance of the CPD's resident expert in the field.

Detective B. Jacob Sandburg alighted from his partner's truck. Greeting the uniformed officers on guard, he and his partner passed into the small, but neat house. It stood on a street of similar houses, dating from the 1950s. While the other houses were somewhat shabby, being in many cases rentals or owned by retirees in reduced circumstances, this one had obviously undergone recent remodeling, as well as expert landscaping. The lot was long and narrow, and was separated from the houses on either side by high, thick hedges. The back yard ended in thick bushes on the edge of a ravine which had a creek at the bottom.

"Hey, Mike!" exclaimed Jacob, "You're back!"

"Yeah, just got cleared from all restrictions. This is my first case--and you horn in again."

This last was said in a jocular tone; everyone knew what he was referring to. Some months earlier, Mike Hardcastle refused to see that what appeared to have been a robbery-gone-wrong was actually something more complicated. When Jacob had pushed him, the usually even-tempered man had reacted with an uncharacteristic fury, and had practically thrown the file at Jacob. Later it was discovered that he had been suffering from a brain tumor, which had explained his aberrant behavior. As a result of the operation, he had been on medical leave, and then on restricted duty, and was only now returning to full active duty.

"The door was shut," he continued, "but not locked. You will see that there are signs of a struggle."

That was putting it mildly. Nearly every article of furniture in the living room had been tipped over; ornaments had been broken. Among the debris was a coffee service; brown stains on the carpet showed that it had been full.

"Apparently the victim knew his assailant, and had no reason to fear him. There's no sign of forced entry, and it seems that they drank coffee quite amicably, like two civilized men. Then something happened to start a fight."

"You say 'men'?"

"Well, I suppose it _could_ have been a woman, but she'd have been a real Amazon. Come."

They passed through the dining room, where there was further evidence of a fight, and entered the kitchen. The body was gone, but the position in which it had fallen was marked with tape. The two knives were on the counter.

"This was the murder weapon. This one was in the dead man's hand."

"How was he holding the knife?" asked Jim.

"Like this," replied Mike, demonstrating with his pen.

"That's not dissimilar to the grip they taught us in the Rangers. So, the man was an experienced knife-fighter."

"Would that mean that the assailant was one too?" asked Jacob.

"Probably, but not certainly," replied Jim, "even a rank amateur could get in a lucky shot. We'll know after forensics analyses angle-of-entry and other factors. Now, where are the things you wanted Jacob to see?"

"In the basement. This way. Don't bother being careful--forensics has been all over the kitchen."

Jacob was highly impressed with the setup in the basement. A considerable amount of antiquities forgeries could have been made there. Not terribly sophisticated ones, to be sure, but the castings in wax and plaster could be taken elsewhere, with more elaborate equipment, and resulted in even better forgeries. However, there were no originals, a fact which Jacob remarked on.

"The assailant took them," speculated Mike, "the upstairs has been pretty well tossed."

"Do you think it was the work of one person, or several?" asked Jim.

"Well, we only found two coffee cups, so the assailant came alone; he might have brought people in afterwards. The tossing could have been done by one person, but it would have taken a lot of time."

"Well, we'd better get to our photography now," said Jacob, beginning to set up the equipment.

He arranged the wax and plaster casts on squares of black velvet, putting scale rods down to show size. He then proceeded to take pictures from various angles and distances.

"Well, Jim, what could you tell?"

"I smelled Alain's cologne there, but his scent was a few days old. Probably from when he came for that check. Then there were the smells from the task force, Homicide, and Forensics. There was a very distinct smell. Some sort of perfume or cologne; I couldn't quite place it. There was also a chemical smell; that's centered here."

"Probably something to do with the forgery operations. Did you see anything?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Touch? Taste?"

"Nothing."

"Hearing?"

"Nope."

After they got the pictures, Jim and Jacob visited the rest of the house. It had indeed, as Mike had said, been well and truly tossed. One would have thought that the searcher or searchers would have found anything, if it had been there to find--even the mattresses had been slit; however, Jim was able to find a minute irregularity in one of the baseboards in the back bedroom. Using Jacob's Swiss Army knife, they were able to pry the loose board off and find a small cubbyhole, filled with a bundle wrapped in cloth. The bundle, upon being opened, proved to be some very old documents; they were written in some language nobody recognized. Jacob opined that it might be Arabic, but he could not be sure.

Firmly requesting that nobody touch the papers, he ran for the truck. There he retrieved his forensic kit, which he had personalized with some additional items. In about an hour or so he had the documents deacidified and sealed to prevent further decay or damage from all but the roughest handling. He then packaged them for evidence, with a recommendation that an expert in Semitic languages be brought in.

He and Jim fully intended to leave at that point, standing aside to let Mike Hardcastle do his job. Some impulse, however, impelled them to go into the back yard, where Jim noticed that the bushes in the back had been disturbed. Following the trail, they came to the edge of the ravine. It was obvious that somebody had climbed down recently.

"It looks rather damp and muddy down there," remarked Jacob.

"I think our waders are still in the truck," put in Jim, recalling their last fishing trip. His long legs making quick work of the distance, he went back to the truck and retrieved them, stopping only long enough to tell Hardcastle what they were about to do. Then, not without much slipping, sliding, grabbing onto bushes and branches, and occasional bad language, he and Jacob descended to the creek bed. There their efforts were rewarded by two sets of tracks--a pair of large feet had come up through the mud beside the stream, and two had gone back down. Out came the camera to take some snaps of the footprints. They then followed the footprints down the ravine to where the creek went into a culvert under a road; there they saw tire tracks in the mud. Jim pulled out his cell phone and called in what they found. A forensics team came to take casts of the footprints and tire tread.

"Jim, I'm out of my depth here. We need to call in an expert."

"Chief," replied Jim, "you're our archaeology expert."

"Yes, Jim, but Biblical Archaeology was never my specialty. We need someone who knows more about this than I do. I think we should bring Alain in."

"We can't do that, Chief. If we need an expert, it'll have to be someone else."

"Why?"

"Alain's a suspect."

"What?!?! Captain, tell Jim he's out of his mind."

"Sandburg," sighed Simon, "Jim's right. From what you two have told us about Alain, he had both motive and means. Unless he had an unbreakable alibi, he's a suspect."

"But Simon, he's a priest!"

"Clergymen have been murderers before now."

"And isn't a suspect's character a part of the evidence? I know Alain--he's no murderer."

"Sandburg, in the first place you haven't seen him in years; people change. In the second, by his own admission he's a freelance covert operator--do you think he's never killed anyone?"

"I don't know. But not all killing is murder. Besides--he's a martial arts expert. If he'd wanted to kill that man he would have done it far less messily."

"I'll admit," said Jim, "that he isn't a strong suspect. Chief, I know its hard when a friend is a suspect. If you honestly feel that you can't be objective about this, Simon'll take you off the case."

"No, Jim. I want to stay on. I have to stay on. Besides, you need an archaeologist on this case--even if he isn't a specialist."

"Sandburg, if we do have to call in a specialist, whom do you recommend?" asked Simon.

"Dr. Griffith at Rainier. He divides his time between Religious Studies and Anthropology."

"How does he feel about you?"

"I don't know. He was out of the country when during the Implosion. I haven't had occasion to talk to him since."

"All right," said Simon, "Connor, what did you find out about. . ."

The Major Crimes meeting proceeded to discuss other cases. After all the detectives made their reports, Simon asked if anyone else had anything to add. Sandburg raised his hand.

"Yes, Jacob?"

"Well, Captain, this isn't really about a case. But since I joined the Force, every time anthropology, archaeology, teaching, graduate school, or Rainier University has come up in my hearing there is a hush. Then everyone is walking around on eggshells for a bit. Then someone takes me aside and asks me--oh, ever so solicitously--if I mind, if I miss my old life, if I regret going into law enforcement, yadda-yadda-yadda. Then that person relays that I'm OK.

"While I appreciate your concern and caring, each time it happens I think that the next time will send me mad in white linen. So, for the last time: yes, I miss teaching; yes, I'm somewhat bitter about what Rainier did to me; but no, I don't regret what I did and mentioning my former field or my alma mater is not 'speaking of rope in the house of the hanged'. I am happy with my new life, and I'm not going anywhere. I hope that someday I will be even half as good a detective as I was a teacher---and I'll never do that if you keep acting as though I'm going to break. See my arm? Flesh and bone--not china, not crystal. I know that you mean well, but please let me do my job. I don't need coddling. I'm not an observer any more; I'm not even a rookie. I don't need to be treated as other than a colleague. Let me say this for the last time: I'm happy here; I like my job; I'm not going anywhere."

"Well, if that's all," said the stunned Simon, "this meeting is over. Get back to work!"

The ride over to Rainier was uncharacteristically silent. Jim was torn between being mad at his young partner and examining his own actions and conduct. Despite the "big, dumb cop" image he sometimes projected, he was far from being an unintelligent man, and objective consideration of his actions revealed that he sometimes did treat his partner as the consultant-observer he had been rather than as the brother-officer he now was. How many times did he almost say, "Stay in the truck and call for backup!"--even now? He also had to admit that Sandburg was shaping up to be a very good detective. He wasn't just 'Ellison's Sidekick' any more.

"Sandburg, talk to me. Have I been really that intolerable?"

"Not all the time, Jim--but you have your moments. I know that part of you wants to keep me out of danger, just like before--but things change, and dangerous situations are my job now. Anyway, even before the only way you'd keep me out of danger would have been to nail my room shut and shove pancakes, pizzas, and other flat foods under the door. Alain is right--I've been a trouble-magnet all my life."

"And the others at Major Crimes, have they been the same way?"

"Not as much. The only one who comes close is Rafe. Jim, you're like the big brother I fantasized about when I was a kid, and Rafe is just about my best friend after you--but there's a fine line between protecting and smothering, and you two cross it sometimes. I know you do it out of love, but still. . . .I'm not going anywhere, Jim---I'll only return to Academe when I'm too old and creaky to be on the streets. Ah, here we are."

The truck pulled up to the parking lot in front of Hargrove Hall. Jim and Jacob got out and started up the walk past the infamous fountain. Jacob averted his eyes. It was unfortunate that thus he avoided seeing Chancellor Edwards bearing down on them.

"Detective Ellison!" she called out, "What is _that_ doing on campus?"

"To what or whom do you refer, Chancellor?" asked Jim softly. If Chancellor Edwards had been a sensible woman, she would have backed off at the sound of that tone.

"I refer to the lying, cheating, bastard get of a Jewish slut beside you." 

Jim opened his mouth to reply, but he had no chance. Jacob stepped forward.

"I'm a member of the Cascade Police Department now, Chancellor, and here on official business. I would advise you to choose your words carefully; if the Anti-Defamation league were to hear of that last remark. . .well, you wouldn't like the results, I can assure you. Furthermore, you can keep your foul mouth off my mother. Any man who talked like that, I'd deck; I don't make it a habit to hit women--but don't tempt me. "

"The Cascade Police Department must be scraping the bottom of the barrel if they took _that_," said the Chancellor, ignoring Jacob and speaking directly to Jim, "if you people have official business here, then you can send someone else. I don't want _that_ on my campus."

"Out of our way, harpy, " snarled Jacob, stepping around the Chancellor. She stuck out her arm and blocked him.

"Not. One. Step. Further," she ground out, punctuating each word with a vigorous poke in his chest. He backed up, towards the fountain. On the last word she, rather than poking, shoved with the palm of her hand. He went over backwards--into the fountain.

Jim heard Jacob's heart rate skyrocketing, the little gasp as he hit the water, and then splashing as he tried to pull himself out. The sight of his Guide being pushed into the water of that fountain by another lamia brought the Blessed Protector roaring out of his den. Somehow James Joseph Ellison, scion of one of Cascade's First Families and CPD Officer of the Year retained enough hold on civilized behavior not to rip the she-dragon limb from limb. Somewhere a panther roared for blood as he spun the spitting, biting, scratching, swearing hellcat that had replaced the Chancellor around and forced her hands behind her.

"Madam, you are under arrest for assault on an officer, interference with a police investigation, and resisting arrest. You have the right to remain silent--and I suggest you exercise it; really, Chancellor, such language from a respected academic--if you give up your right to remain silent--and I wish you wouldn't, at least for now--anything you say may be used as against you in a court of law. . ."

Two uniformed officers appeared; Jim briefly wondered where they had come from, but decided to hold off on his inquiry. The officers stuffed the Chancellor, who was calling down imprecations upon all concerned unto the seventh generation, into the back of their squad car. When she was gone, there came the sounds of someone clapping. A tall, vigorous elderly gentleman was standing on the path.

"Sandburg!" he called, "so good to see you again. I'd heard you were a policeman now."

"Professor Griffin!" exclaimed the dripping detective, "We'd just come to see you."

"Well, I saw you with that harridan, and called in the troops. I had no idea the old termagant knew such fishwife's language! You wouldn't believe how long I've waited to see the battle-ax get what was coming to her! But come, come. Don't just stand there. We've got to get you dry. Come, come."

The professor set a brisk pace and led them to one of the fraternity houses.

"After my wife died and my kids were all off on their own, I sold the house to my oldest and moved into the old Housemother's Suite of my fraternity. The boys keep me young, and I keep them within bounds. Not that I begrudge them their fun--you'd not believe me, old stick that I am now, but I had my moments. Come, come. Hey! Andy!"

This last remark was directed to a young man who was coming down the stairs as they were going up.

"Yes, Professor."

"Andy, this gentleman fell into the fountain. We need to get him dry. You're about his size. Do you have something he can wear, some sweats perhaps?"

"Yes, sir. I'll bring them right down."

The professor ushered them into his suite, which consisted of a bedroom, a sitting room, a small kitchen, and a bathroom. He ordered Jacob into that last room with instructions to take a hot shower. He then set water on the stove to make tea and sat Jim down in the living room. Presently Andy came along with a set of sweats, which the professor set just inside the bathroom. Sandburg soon emerged, warmed and relatively dry. When the tea was ready, the professor poured it out , heedless of Jim's demurrers. As soon as all three were ensconced in the comfortable chairs, the Professor began the conversation.

"So, Sandburg. How does police work suit you?"

"Very well, sir."

"Good. I always thought that you'd end up in something more active than an academic career. You were an excellent teacher, but I always thought that Academe was too confining for you. I was out of the country when everything happened, and then when I came back, it was as though you had dropped off the face of the earth. I'd seen a tape of your press conference, but I never believed it--or rather, I was sure that the real truth was more complex than that."

"I sort of wanted to keep a low profile; and, yes, the truth is more complicated--but I really can't tell you more."

"I can understand that. But, Sandburg--you have more friends here at Rainier than you think. Not all of us agree with Chancellor Edwards. Now, as nice as this is, I'm sure you aren't here to chat. What can I do for you?"

Between them the two detectives explained the case. The professor said that he would gladly come to the station and examine the evidence. An appointment was set for the next day.

"ELLISON, SANDBURG! MY OFFICE!"

The two hastened to comply.

"Would either of you mind telling me why I have Chancellor Edwards in lockup? Assault on a police officer? Interference in an official investigation? What's that all about?"

"Captain, she objected in the strongest terms to Sandburg's being on the campus. When we indicated that we weren't leaving, she. . .she. . ."

"What Jim is trying to say is that she pushed me into the fountain in front of Hargrove Hall. I really think it was not entirely deliberate, and she certainly wasn't trying to _drown_ me, but when he saw me going into the fountain, Jim went berserk."

"Not really, Chief."

"Jim, I saw you. You were ready to tear that foul-mouthed bigoted harridan limb-from-limb; while part of me liked the idea, a larger part did not relish having to arrest you for murder. Although perhaps getting rid of that old battle-ax could be considered 'an act of sanitation'," he concluded speculatively.

"All I know," said Simon, "is that the hookers in the other cell are putting their fingers into their ears to avoid hearing her. I've never heard a woman swear like that. I've called her a 'witch' before--but I think this proves she isn't one, because if she were you two would be heaps of smoldering ash right now--or, perhaps, a couple of toads. The question is, what to do with her?"

"I, for one," said Jacob, "have no burning desire to see her in prison. If the DA and her lawyer will agree to a fine and community service, I'll certainly not object."

"Hey, Hairboy!" called Henri as Jim and Jacob returned to the bullpen, "Good news! Your friend, the fighting priest--his time's accounted for; had two weddings and three funerals."

"See, Jim. I knew Alain had nothing to do with this. Now can I call him?"

"Do we need him, Chief? We've got Prof. Griffith."

"Two heads--three if you count me--are better than one. And we did tell Alain that we'd let him in on this."

"Do you think this has to do with the same antika ring he's here for?"

"What are the odds of there being two in Cascade?"

"I see your point."

"I'll call St. Elizabeth's."

"Reynolds! I didn't know you were in Cascade," said the surprised Prof. Griffith as he spied the scholar-priest in the lobby of the Central Precinct

"I've taken a temporary pastoral job here; the CPD has called me in as a consultant," replied the younger man.

"Me too. I wonder why they need two Biblical Archaeologists? And do you know that an ex-colleague of ours is on the CPD now?"

"You mean Blair Sandburg--or Jacob as he calls himself now? Yes, I did. I looked him up when I was here for that conference about six months ago. He seems well-content in his new career."

"That's good. Our loss is their gain."

At this point Jacob emerged from the elevator.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I'm so glad you could come. The replicas and castings are down in the Evidence Lockers; come with me and I'll show you. Biblical Archaeology is hardly my specialty, and we need some real experts to fully 'read' our evidence."

The three archaeological experts descended into the bowels of the Central Precinct, to the room in the sub-basement where the evidence was stored.

"Its amazing what you find when you start poking around down here," said Jacob, "After a case is finished the evidence is supposed to be returned to the rightful owners or otherwise disposed of, but you'd be surprised what is kept. Every now and again they make a sweep and auction off anything that is of commercial value, but every time I come down here I find some relic that has been forgotten."

After a brief conference with the officer in charge of the storage area, Jacob ushered his guests into the conference room. He left them there briefly, and returned with the items from the house.

The two Biblical Archaeologists eagerly examined the items. There was some debate, but in a few hours most of them were identified as to probable place and era of origin. It was surprising how accurately some things could be dated, especially anything with writing on them. When they finished with their examinations, Jacob allowed them access to two unused department computers to type up their notes, and provided each with a diskette to save the documents. Each promised to circulate the list to colleagues to see if the descriptions matched any missing artifacts.

Meanwhile, Jacob had investigated Hamilton's movements. First he confirmed the evidence Alain had gathered. Then, as reports came back matching the copies to artifacts held in museums around the world--but in no case to something in the public collection, always something that had been gathering dust in some storeroom--he began correlating Hamilton's movements to the museums in question. Sure enough, over the past year or so Hamilton had visited each one for one reason or another. True, in each case he had a perfectly legitimate reason to do so, and nobody could recall his having gone anywhere near the store-rooms, but still, 'once is chance. . .' Then more reports came in; in about half the cases the articles in question were still in storage, but in the other half they were missing.

Then there was the matter of the documents. When Jacob showed them to Alain--whose Arabic was better than his--they proved to be land deeds and tax records from early-twentieth-century Palestine.

"Now why," asked Simon, "would those be of interest to anyone?"

Nobody had any idea until Rafe caught a report on CNN. The latest Middle East peace proposal included provisions for reparations to Palestinians whose lands had been seized by Jewish settlers. Claimants would have to be able to prove their (or their ancestors')title, and possession of these documents would be valuable to many Palestinian families.

The question arose, of course, concerning the relationship between the documents and the artifacts--or was there a connection? It was perfectly possible that the dead man had more than one scheme in hand, each quite independent of the others. And where did Hamilton fit in? Or did he?

Jim rubbed his eyes; there had to be something among the documents taken from the house which could help. He wished that Jacob was there, but he had gone to Olympia to offer expert testimony in Federal court. Now, he knew that the Palestinian land documents were a bust. Even if there were something there, he certainly couldn't read them, as they were all in either Arabic or Turkish. However, there were documents in English. So far, nobody had gotten anything out of them, but he supposed he could try.

Hello! This looked like a lease on one of the old warehouses on the North Harbor. Too shallow to accommodate most modern freighters, the North Harbor was largely abandoned; there were a couple of marinas for pleasure craft, and some of what was left of the Cascade fishing fleet still used it--yet much of that quarter was a ghost town, living just well enough not to die. Now, why would anyone want to lease that old warehouse?

A quick call to the Planning Office showed that there was no current usage permit on that address; however, another call to the Utilities Commission showed that electricity, water, and gas were turned on; as for who held the accounts--well, they couldn't release that information without a court order. Curioser and curioser, as Alice would say.

The notes showed that nobody had noticed the matter, or had followed up if they had. Jim looked around the bullpen. Rafe and Brown were out on another case. Joel and Megan were interviewing a witness. Simon was in a meeting at the Chief's office. In short, everyone else in Major Crimes was occupied or away.

It was S.O.P. not to investigate a lead on one's own, and there were good reasons for that. It had started out as a Homicide case--could he borrow someone from there? Mike Hardcastle, for example? Jim still felt hesitant about dealing with the man. He knew that Mike's bad temper was because of the tumor--but still, it was hard getting around some of the ugly things he had said. But he knew that Mike was still beating himself up about the whole affair; it would do him good to be asked, at least.

Well, so much for that idea. Mike was far too occupied by his own cases. He'd been quite cordial about it though--it seemed that the old Mellow Mike was back.

The impulse to investigate the warehouse was like an itch one couldn't quite reach. Surely it would do no harm to go look--just a quick drive by. It would be quite, quite safe.

Jacob was at his wits' end. He had come back from Olympia three days ago to find--no Jim. He had left the Central Precinct one night and--vanished. It had been the end of the workday, and he had not been scheduled to come in until the following afternoon. Nobody could recall his saying anything that would give an indication of where he might be going, or what he might have been doing that night. Mike Hardcastle had remembered that he'd asked for his help in following up a lead, but he had no idea what that lead might be. Nobody else had even that much of an inkling.

Every member of Major Crimes and Homicide was calling in favors from every snitch. Nothing. In Cascade's slums, Father Alain Reynolds was asking every street person who would talk to the Canadian scholar turned urban missionary. Nothing.

"Alain, I don't know what to do," wailed Jacob, "I've used every contact I've made as either a cop or an urban anthropologist. All the guys at the station have used their contacts. People say he's dead, but he's not. I'd know if he were."

"Jacob, when you say that you'd know--do you mean that, really? How do you know?"

"Alain, I've not told anyone else about this, but I think that as a priest and an antiquarian, you'd understand."

Jacob went into his room and came out with a small box and some papers. He opened the box and took out two silver medallions. Each showed an animal in high-relief--one a panther, the other a wolf. Each animal had chips of sapphire for eyes.

"Alain, you know that I'm Jim's Guide, and I think you know a little of what that entails. I have another title, though--Shaman. You know what that means?"

"Yes, of course."

"The Panther--or, perhaps, a Jaguar--is Jim's Spirit Animal, his Totem; the Wolf is mine. Several times we've had visions involving both animals, visions that show the crises of our lives in symbolic terms. When I. . .I died---I'm sure you heard about that. . ."

"Yes."

"I had the whole 'near-death-experience' as Kübler-Ross documented it, but then it shifted. I saw myself transformed into a wolf and I saw Jim's panther. We were both in the jungle, each on one edge of a ravine. Something told me to jump, and I did, just as the panther did. We met in the middle and merged, there was a flash of light--and I was on the lawn in front of Hargrove Hall, coughing water out of my lungs. Ever since then, the visions have been coming more and more. Then, when I graduated from the Academy, an old lady who knew Jim gave us these medals; her husband had gotten them in Peru some forty years ago, and told her she'd know whom to pass them on to. Can you read Spanish?"

"Yes."

"Then read these."

"Wow."

"There's a psychic connection between us; we can sometimes know what the other is thinking or feeling. I've been meditating, and I get a sense that he's alive still, but I don't know where. I've been having dreams of the wolf searching for the panther, and the wolf is getting more and more frantic. He can smell the panther, hear him, but he can't find him. And the panther is getting weaker.

"It isn't just the present crisis, Alain; I've tried to master the esoteric aspects of being the Shaman. Jim's initial Sentinel training was with the Chopec of Peru, and it was a Chopec wiseman who first named me Shaman. I've researched the Chopec rites and tried to use them, but they don't work here."

"Well, of course they wouldn't. Jacob, religious rites, especially Shamanic ones, are bound to place and culture. What works in Peru does not necessarily work in Washington."

"I've researched the rites of the Native Americans--First Nations to you--of the area, but I can't quite get them to work either."

"Jacob, I said place and culture. How can a man who knows so much of other cultures not appreciate the riches of his own? I remember that you said once that, if you couldn't know who your father's people were, you'd know as much as you could about your mother's--even when she wanted nothing to do with them. What did you find out about your maternal ancestry?"

"Quite a lot. Mom comes from an old, well-to-do German Jewish family in New York. Two of my great-great-grandfathers were founding partners in a major law firm, and most of their descendants have been lawyers, with a sprinkling of doctors, accountants, rabbis, and professors. And an occasional black sheep rebel like Mom, or Cousin Robert, or Uncle Owen. Robert's a bookie, Owen's a truck driver, and Mom's. . .well, Mom. As far as I know, I'm the first cop."

"So far, so good. Go a little farther back."

"What does this have to do with finding Jim?"

"Bear with me. We'll get to that."

Jacob came up with some other facts of his family history. Each time, Alain would smile and nod and say, "Yes, yes, but the important point is not that."

"Let's take it from the other side," said Alain, "What does a Shaman do?"

"The Shaman is a healer--not just of bodies, although he knows of herbs and roots and the like--but of the mind and soul. He counsels. He upholds the tribe's values. He teaches the young. He gives spiritual guidance. He mediates between the tribe and the spirit world, he. . "

"Yes, you get it. Now, what in your family background relates to that?"

"Well, we have produced quite a few rabbis."

"Good. But go farther back."

"Well. . . .I don't know what you're trying to tell me! I feel that it is right under my nose, but. . ."

"Go way back. Back to where history intersects with legend and myth."

"We're said to be descended from the _kohenim_ ."

"Who were?"

"When the Temple in Jerusalem was still standing, they were the priests..."

"Yes. And before that, when the forefathers of the Jews were nomads in the desert, the _kohenim_ were the Shamans. As the Hebrews changed from nomads to farmers and city-dwellers, their religious life adapted and the Shamans became priests. When blood-sacrifices stopped, the spiritual life of the Jews shifted to one centered around study and reading, and the priests lost their place of leadership to the scholars—the rabbis--but they never forgot what they had been. Shamanism isn't just something you've taken up; its in your blood. Diluted and far-removed, but it is, nevertheless, there."

"So you are saying. . ."

"Be your kind of Shaman. The culture of Cascade is Judeo-Christian. Therefore, Cascade's Shaman must be an Abrahamatic Shaman. Meditate on this, Jacob; I will be back in an hour."

After Alain left, Jacob sat on the couch for a while, thinking hard. He then prepared to meditate, but with a difference. Where usually he put on either New Age music or tribal chants from Africa or South America, he now put on one of Sephardic music. Rather than the herbal incense he normally favored, he lit frankincense and myrrh. He hung his wolf-medallion around his neck and cradled the panther-medallion in his hands over his lap.

Suddenly, he was in the jungle. He looked down. Instead of his normal, Cascade cloths or his Chopec loincloth and sandals, he wore a long robe, girded around the chest with a sash. His feet were bare, and--when he lifted his hand--he realized he had a turban on his head. The front of the turban had a metal plate on it, and he could feel a raised design. Somehow he knew they were Hebrew letters. The robe was embroidered about the hem with a design of lilies and pomegranates, and in his hand was a long staff.

The clearing he was in was round, and there were four paths leading from it. Somehow he knew that they lead to the four cardinal points of the compass. He turned to what he felt, somehow, was the East, and started for the path.

Instantly his way was barred by a young man, dressed much as he was, but where his robes were white, the young man's were yellow. The young man bore, instead of a staff, a bow and arrow.

Jacob dropped into a crouch, bringing his staff to a 'guard' position. The young man laughed.

"Ah, you would fight one of my order, as your ancestor and namesake did? Not today. You are a Guide, as I have been; there is no need for us to fight. But the Road of the East you shall not travel."

Jacob turned and attempted to leave the clearing through the south gate, only to find it again barred, this time by a young man in armor and a red cape. The young man drew a sword.

"Though I am called Prince of your people, Son of Israel, even as my sword guards the way to the Tree of Life, so must I bar you from the Road of the South."

Jacob turned and attempted to leave by the west, but again the way was barred. The guardian of the west was also robed, this time in blue. In one hand he bore a golden chalice, filled with what looked like red wine, and in the other a long trumpet; he wore a wreath of lilies on his head.

"Come, refresh and console yourself," he said, "for the Road of the West is not yours today."

Jacob fled to the northern path, and was met by a cold wind. Standing in the path, his green robes whipped about by the wind, was a man, older than the rest, holding a smooth stone.

"All people come by my gate, sooner or later; you have approached it before, but today is not yours to do so again. You have much to accomplish before you may come to me."

"North, South, East, West--all ways are barred to me! I must find my Sentinel! You shall not stop me!"

"We do not stop you," said East.

"But these are not the paths," said West.

"Fight for your Sentinel," said South.

"And you shall prevail," said North.

Whirling his staff, Jacob charged to the South. South brought his sword up, and as their weapons were about to meet, he heard West sounding his trumpet. . .

. . .and he found himself sprawled on the floor of the loft.

"Well, it was your vision. What do you think it meant?"

"If I knew, why would I ask you?"

"Jacob, it is overwhelming. Let's take it bit by bit. First, you found yourself in a jungle clearing. Is that usual for your visions?"

"Yes."

"Did you see either the panther or the wolf?"

"Not exactly."

"Yes or no."

"No, but I sensed they were there, just out of sight."

"How were you dressed?"

"In some sort of robe, linen I think, and a turban."

"Is this how you're dressed in those visions, usually?"

"No, usually I'm either in normal clothes or dressed like a Chopec."

"Hmm. Anything else unusual about your clothing?"

"Well, I'm barefoot."

"'Moses, put off thy shoes, for the place where thou standest is holy ground.'"

"OK. And the robe?"

"Describe it."

Jacob did so.

"That sounds not unlike the vestments of the priests, as described in Leviticus."

Jacob went on to describe the four men who blocked his path.

"Who do you think those men were?"

"The one talked about my namesake fighting. . .I'm going to guess that they were angels."

"Exactly; Jacob wrestling with the angel. Raphael, in The Book of Tobit, is a guide to travelers and a healer. He's associated with the east and with the air, and his symbol is the arrow. Michael, in The Book of Daniel is referred to as the Prince of Israel. He's identified with the Angel of the Sword, who bars the way back to Eden."

"OK. And the other two?"

"Gabriel is the Angel of Water. The Christian Gospel According to Luke says that he told Mary that she would be the mother of the Christ Child, and he is identified with the Succoring Angel who ministered to Jesus in Gethsemane and with the Angel of the Trumpet who will call the Dead to Judgment at the end of the world. Uriel is mentioned only once in the Bible, in the First Book of Esdras. He's thought of as the Angel of Good Death--bringing rest to the weary, freedom to the captive, ease to those in pain or grief."

"I had heard all that before--I just didn't make the connection. Alain, I'm going to try something; two somethings, actually. As a priest, you may not want anything to do with this, but I'd prefer you to be here, if you can. Wait!"

Jacob disappeared into his room. After much rummaging about, he came out with two boxes. From one he took an oblong bundle wrapped in black silk. From the other came a wooden triangle on little wheels, with a hole at the point.

"Some years ago I experimented with a Tarot deck. I put it away and haven't had it out for the longest time. But I'm going to do a reading to see if Jim is alive and if we can find him--and perhaps to get an idea of where and how he is. Now, I know that the Church frowns on fortune telling. . ."

"Yes, it does. But you aren't a Christian, so it is not for me to advise you one way or the other on that point. It's your decision."

"This is a planchette from a Ouidja Board. After I do the Tarot reading, I'll use it with a map of Cascade to find out where Jim is.

"I would advise you to pray before you try this, Jacob."

As he shuffled the Tarot deck, Jacob searched his memory for prayers, and muttered something in Hebrew; he then cut the deck and drew out three

cards.

__
  * The Tower Struck by Lightning 
  * The Hanged Man 
  * The Nine of Cups 

"Jacob, do you know how to interpret this?"

"The Tower refers to a reversal of the established order; an abrupt change of plans; something unexpected, out of the ordinary. The Hanged Man is a transitional card; it represents being open to the next stage of one's spiritual journey, being ready to take the next step. The Nine of Cups is the Success Card."

"How does this apply to your situation."

"The Tower indicates a role-reversal. Usually it is Jim who has to rescue me. Or it could refer back to--the Implosion. The Hanged Man. . .well, I guess that mean's I'm ready to accept the esoteric aspect of being Shaman of Cascade. And the Nine of Cups means that we will find Jim."

"That sounds reasonable. Now, how do you propose we find him?"

"First, spread the big map of Cascade on the table while I fire up my computer. High tech meets divination!"

When everything was set up, Jacob took the medallions out. Setting the Wolf around his own neck, he held the Jaguar in his upraised right hand, and--placing the planchette on Prospect Street--he set his left hand upon it. He then began to do his deep breathing exercises, muttering in Hebrew, repeating the same phrase over and over. The planchette kited across the city to the North Harbor district.

Jacob then went to the computer, called up a map of the North Harbor, printed it out, and repeated the process. The planchette took him to a particular section of the district. He zoomed in closer, then repeated the process. The next smaller map, instead of using the planchette, he dangled the Jaguar over the paper, moving the medallion back and forth. Suddenly, it started to spin.

"Triton Street, the six hundred block," he said, stepping over to the telephone and dialing, "Captain! Sandburg here. I know where Jim is. No, sir, you don't want to know how; yes, one of those things we don't talk about. North Harbor district, six hundred block of Triton Street. Send backup, I'm on my way. No, Simon. Order me not to and I'll resign and go as a private citizen. Yes, Captain; I'm on my way."

"Where are we going?"

"_We_ aren't going anywhere, Father Reynolds. You're a civilian and not even a citizen. Stay here or go back to St. Elizabeth's."

"Blair. . ."

"Blair is no more. I'm Jacob now."

"Whatever. In the first place, my motorcycle is faster than that 'classic' of yours. In the second, leave me behind and I'll follow on my own. Jim's my friend too--and I was your Blessed Protector long before he was."

"Alain, I'll arrest you for interfering in a police investigation."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

"OK," said Alain, moving in front of the door and dropping into a fighting stance, "if you can get past me, I'll let you go alone; if you can't you'll take me with you."

Jacob snatched his cane from the stand, feinted left, dodged right----then turned and ran into his room, pulling the door shut and locking it, right in Alain's face. Then he was out through the back door and down the stairs, out into the alley. He ran to his car, stopping long enough to pull out his Swiss Army knife and slash Alain's tires, and he was off. As he turned the corner, he saw Alain emerge from the building and shake his fist.

Pain.

Cold.

Thirst.

Those were the three things Jim Ellison was aware of. Remembering his breathing exercises, he dialed down the first two. The third he would have to endure.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. If Jacob had done such a thing, Jim would have torn him a new one. He knew better. He cast his mind back to how he had gotten into this situation.

He had driven by the empty warehouse. Twice. The second time, as he glanced down an alley, he saw some shadowy figures entering through a side door. He parked and got out to investigate. He didn't call for backup. Stupid, stupid, stupid, James--you know better.

He should have realized that the locked door was forced too easily. He should have noticed the booby trap before he tripped it. Booby trap is right--and they caught a booby.

He swung from the ceiling, the noose around his ankle. He heard laughter and comments in a language he didn't understand, but he thought he recognized as Arabic. He couldn't blame them for laughing. He probably looked silly, hanging head-down by one leg; Will Rogers once said that anything was funny if it happened to someone else. Ha. Ha. Ha. Hands pushed him and he swung. Someone decided it would be funny to spin him. He threw up. Or, rather, down. One advantage of inversion was that he didn't foul himself; thank God for small mercies.

"Detective Ellison; how unfortunate," said a heavily accented voice, "I've never deliberately killed anyone, and I'm not about to start now. Oh, and if you are wondering about that poor forger--I didn't kill him or even order his death. My representative got, how should I say it, _overenthusiastic_ when he didn't cooperate."

He was lowered to the floor. Too dizzy to put up much of a fight, he was easily bound and pushed down a flight of stairs into the dark cellar. He heard the door shut and lock before he struck his head and knew no more.

Jacob arrived at the street in question at about the same time the backup team did, with Simon at their head.

"Dammit, Sandburg! Don't ever give me an ultimatum like that again!'

"With all due respect, Captain, my partner's safety is of primary concern; it would be even if he were only a colleague and not my best friend. If you don't understand that, you don't understand me. And you are not the man I have taken you for. Fine me, suspend me, whatever discipline you see fit, but first we need to get Jim back."

All the other officers took about two steps back. Someone was heard to mutter, "A bolt of lightning for Detective Sandburg." Simon opened and closed his mouth several times, not unlike a prize carp. He then took out another cigar and clamped it between his teeth.

"Which building, Sandburg," he said, rather as though his mouth hurt.

"I'm not sure yet, sir. Give me a moment."

He stood in the middle of the street. He shifted his cane to his left hand and held it out, parallel to the ground. He reached into his pocket and pulled an object out. Those who were standing nearby recognized it as the silver Jaguar medallion that Ellison sometimes wore. They noticed that Sandburg was wearing the matching Wolf medallion.

Sandburg stood, his eyes closed, breathing deeply. Officially, what happened next was a trick of the light. However, it was whispered on stakeouts and in locker rooms throughout the C.P.D. for years to come that the gemstones on the two medallions and the carved wolf's head on the horn of Sandburg's cane glowed blue, and that the designs on the shaft of his cane shone with a golden light. Some of the more educated officers recognized that the designs--which all had previously assumed to have been mere geometrical decorations--were stylized Hebrew letters, although none of the Jewish officers could--or perhaps would--say what they meant.

Officially, Sandburg then turned and pointed with his cane to one of the buildings. According to the unofficial story, the cane pulled him around to face the building. He began approach the building in a sort of stumbling run, almost as though someone had grabbed his arm and was pulling it. Just before he reached the door he lowered his cane, dropped his shoulder, and slammed into the door in a perfect professional football block. Sandburg was the second smallest man on the Force, but somehow he struck the door hard enough break it down. He fell forward on top of it, and rolled to one side. Captain Banks and the rest of Major Crimes were right behind him, and they heard him say, "basement" as they went past.

After Major Crimes found him in the dark, dank cellar, the paramedics bundled the protesting Detective Ellison off to Cascade General. At the hospital an officious intern tried to keep Sandburg away from his partner; after Sandburg was through with him, he was quite ready to shift from Emergency Medicine to Pathology. 

Fortunately, other than various contusions, some dehydration, and a mild concussion, Detective Ellison was not seriously hurt. His reaction to a suggestion that he spend the night in the hospital sent a nurse to apply for a transfer to Maternity.

After stopping at the station to give their statements, they went home. Taped to the door was a bill for two new motorcycle tires. Jim, of course, wanted to know what that was about, and Jacob somewhat shamefacedly told him; it was unfortunate that Jim had poured himself a beer and had just taken a sip. He laughed, of course, and--naturally--when one laughs with a mouthful of liquid, a considerable amount ends up coming out of one's nose. 

"God, Chief, back when you were an observer, I was often tempted to do something like that--disable your car to keep you from following me when I'd told you to stay home. The shoe's on the other foot, I guess."

"Well, now that you put it that way. . . .D'yeh think Alain'll forgive me?"

"I'm sure he will. But we really should reimburse him for the tires. What's this on the table?"

"How do you think we found you? I tried every normal way, so I decided to scry for you. First I did a three-card Tarot spread, which told me that you were still alive, then I dowsed to find out where you were."

"Dowsed?"

"You know, the way they use a forked stick to find water? I used the Jaguar Medallion, a planchette, and my cane."

"Now this is odd."

"What?"

"The Hanged Man card. I was strung up by the ankle, upside-down, like the man in the picture."

Jacob startled Jim by beginning to stomp up and down the loft, pulling at his hair and cursing under his breath.

"Chief. . .Sandburg. . .what's the matter?"

"Some Shaman I am--can't even correctly interpret at three-card spread, the simplest figure in Tarot."

"Chief, I don't know what you are talking about."

"According to the book, the Hanged Man means letting go of preconceived ideas and opening oneself to a new stage of spiritual development. I thought that it referred to me accepting the esoteric side of Shamanism. Now I see that it was simply an indication of what had been done to you."

"Well, Chief, I don't know much about these things, but I seem to remember reading somewhere that there is seldom one and only one correct interpretation of a spread. The card could mean both things--they aren't mutually exclusive. And you did find me, after all, and that's the main thing. But you aren't intending to do this sort of thing regularly, are you? Its just a little odd."

"Jim, this creeps me out a little, too. I'm not sure how comfortable I am with the esoteric side of being the Shaman of Cascade. I'm going to have to think about this, a lot. I can tell you this--I won't try it, or anything like it--again unless the situation were desperate. Now, let's get the table cleared and I'll start supper. How does a nice tuna stir-fry with noodles sound? You, go take your shower, get comfortable, and I'll have everything ready for you by then. And remember the rule--no shoptalk at dinner."

Jim had been told to take the next day off; he wanted to come in anyway, but Jacob insisted he stay.

"Jim," he said, "you're going to grumble, and protest, and complain, and generally act like a bear with a toothache, but you're ultimately going to do as I tell you. Why not save us both the aggravation and skip the grumbling, protesting, and complaining?"

He left Jim sitting on the couch with a rather stunned expression on his face.

When he got to Headquarters, he noticed that people were acting very oddly towards him. Some of them actually seemed a little bit afraid of him. He also noticed that those who had been, when he joined the Force, the least welcoming seemed to be now the most afraid. Puzzled, he entered the Major Crimes bullpen; thankfully, whatever had bitten the rest of the precinct had passed over the other members of that department. They greeted him and asked about Jim's health, asked and answered some questions about various cases--all perfectly normal.

"Sandburg! My office!" came the Banks Bellow.

That was normal also.

"Good morning, Captain."

"Don't good morning me. What was that you did to find Ellison?"

"Jim's doing OK, Captain, thanks for asking. He should be back to work tomorrow."

"Answer my question, soon-to-be-_Patrolman_ Sandburg."

"With respect sir, if I did it would be in violation of your standing orders concerning things you don't want to know about."

"Do you know, Sandburg, that half the precinct thinks that you'll turn them into toads if they look cross-eyed at you? Remember Andrews in Vice?"

"That fathead?"

"Yes, I agree, he's a fathead. D'you know what he asked me? If there were anti-witchcraft statutes still on the books in Washington State! As it happens, there aren't."

"And they'd be unconstitutional if they were. Free exercise of religion, and all that."

"Which is beside the point. We can cover up most of Ellison's use of senses, but have you any idea how much creative report writing has had to be done in consequence of your using Black Magic your partner? Forensic Sorcery is supposed to stay between the covers of Randall Garrett's novels!"

"Captain, that was White Magic, not Black. In any case, would you rather I had left Jim down there? Conventional methods of searching weren't working."

"No, of course not. 'The proof of the pudding', and all that. Just, if you must use those _other_ methods, try to be a little more discreet about it, eh Sandburg?"

"Very well, sir. I will."

"Dismissed."

"Major Crimes. Detective Sandburg speaking."

"Hey, Chief."

"Jim. Feeling better?"

"Yes. I have an idea."

"Yes."

"Your friend Alain suspected Hamilton, right?"

"Yes, but he had no real evidence."

"Has he told you anything new?"

"His contacts overseas have uncovered some fishy dealings, but nothing that would put him under our jurisdiction or under the Washington State courts. He has an alibi for the time of the killing."

"Yes. I was thinking of the smell and the voice. Only one person spoke to me in the warehouse, and I'm sure that accent was fake, and the smell in the murder house I also smelled there. I was thinking that if we could get close enough to Hamilton for me to hear his voice or smell him. . ."

"The first wouldn't be admissible; the second is (pardon the pun) shaky You were being swung, spinning, upside down. A defense lawyer would argue that you were disoriented, confused."

"You're right--not good enough at trial, but good enough to get a warrant for the right magistrate. Here's my idea. Drag me to the museum. Be the anthropology major showing his Philistine friend a bit of culture. You can act like a prissy academic, and I'll drag my knuckles a bit. . .Get me within earshot of him. . ."

"Yeah, I get it. Sounds good. Tomorrow afternoon, then?"

"Great."

Just around the corner from the museum a green Volvo pulled over to the side of the road. The occupants got out and proceeded to collapse onto the grass, laughing hysterically.

"All. . .all. . .all you needed was a pipe. And where did you learn that 'Hahvahd yahd' accent?"

"And you.. . . Archie Bunker, Jr.! I said I took back that 'throwback to primitive man' crack? Well, I retract the retraction!"

"He recognized me, of course, but I played up the 'dumb cop' angle, and he swallowed it--hook, line and sinker."

"Did you get anything?"

"Yes, he reeked of that scent. And the voice, sans the fake accent, is the same."

"So, we go for the warrant."

"Yes, Chief, but first to the loft to change."

"Change? What's the matter with what we're wearing?"

"The Magistrate on duty is Bethany Potts."

"Yes?"

"She's sweet on you. I'll make the petition, you stand behind me to one side and bat those baby blues. The tweedy professorial look isn't right for that."

"What do you suggest?"

"Those black jeans, the one that look sprayed on, and the blue silk shirt. The Indonesian batik vest and the Cuban-heeled shoes."

"Jim, I'm not a gigolo! If it were Megan, would you ask her to wear a short skirt or a low décolletage for a male judge?"

"I wouldn't have to. She'd do it on her own. You might try the same outfit for Judge Samuelson."

"Judge Arthur Samuelson?"

"He likes you. Really likes you."

"The dirty old man!"

"Chief, he's only four years older than I am."

"As I said. The dirty old man."

If Jacob thought his partner was joking, he soon found different. When they got to the Loft, Jim strode to his closet, removed the garments in question, and threw them on the bed. Jacob looked like he wanted to argue, then threw up his hands and closed the French doors behind him. He came out, but Jim pointed to his feet.

"Cuban heels."

"Why?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yes."

"I overheard two of the ladies at the Precinct say that they make your rear end wiggle in a way they like."

"I DO NOT WIGGLE!"

"I hate to break it to you, Chief, but you do."

"I'll _get_ you for this, James Ellison, just you wait!"

It may have been Jim's persuasive presentation; it may have been Jacob's eye-batting; whatever the reason, the search warrant was approved, and Jim summoned the team to Hamilton's house.

A search found some shoes from which traces of mud matching the creek and blood matching the victim were found. However, the shoes were obviously not Hamilton's, because he wore a size ten shoe, and these shoes were a size eight. He was cautioned not to leave town, and his passport was confiscated. However, he promptly vanished. Further investigation discovered that he had dual citizenship with the Republic of Ireland, and had used his Irish passport to leave the country. (This discovery produced some colorful language in the Major Crimes bullpen.) He turned up working in a European museum. Although the Cascade police and D.A. were convinced that he was at least an accessory, there was not enough evidence to ask for extradition.

It was shortly after this that Alain decided that he had to return to the Institute in Toronto. Jim and Jacob gave him a farewell dinner at the Loft, where he announced that, a few weeks after getting settled back in Toronto, he was off to the Holy Land for a dig.

It was disappointing--indeed, downright annoying--that the murder case had to be relegated to the back burner, but with the presumptive mastermind of the conspiracy in Europe and the actual perpetrators probably in the Middle East, there was little else they could to. It was some consolation--although not much--that the people of Cascade were probably safe from this particular lot.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

****

Six Months Later:

"Ellison and Sandburg. Oh, hi, Alain! Yes, it does sound rather like a high-class law firm--Country Club WASP and clever Jew. No, Jim's not here. All-expense trip to Rome? Well, we've put in a lot of extra hours, I think the Department owes us come comp time. I'll ask Jim. Where can we call you back? Oh, you're in Toronto? You'll have to tell me about your expedition. Bye."

There were a few calls back and forth to finalize the particulars, but soon an envelope containing their tickets and itinerary arrive. To both their surprise, the return address was the Apostolic Nuntiature of the Holy See in Washington. Jacob shrugged it off, saying that odd things happened when Alain was around.

They flew from Cascade to New York, from New York to London, and from London to Rome. There a brown-robed friar met them and escorted them to a white-painted chopper, which hopped them over to the Vatican City. There Alain met them with a modified golf cart, on which he whisked them to a small cottage in an out-of-the-way corner of the Vatican Gardens--three bedrooms, a bath, a living-dining area and a small kitchen. A meal was waiting for them, prepared and dished up by two blue-habited nuns. As soon as they sat down, Alain assured the sisters that they could take care of the washing-up, and urged them to return to the convent for Vespers.

Alain was voluble about reminiscing about Cascade, telling stories about pre-Jim Sandburg, his own archaeological and other adventures--but became a total clam about the nature and purpose of their visit.

"Enjoy the Eternal City," he said, "It isn't every day that one gets to see it. I'll be occupied during the day, but you'll have a guide."

And so it was. Every day they were taken somewhere: the Etruscan Museums at the Villa Giulia, the Fora Antiqua, the Baths of Caracalla, the Baths of Diocletian, the Vatican Museums, the Castel Sant' Angelo, Ostia Antica, the Catacombs. Their guides were graduate students from the Pontifical Universities, from a variety of countries. Sandburg was ecstatic--Jim could see bits of Blair peeking out from behind Jacob, and the enthusiasm of their guides--and his Guide--was contagious. Every evening there was some event--the opera, concerts, the ballet, a sound-and-light show at one of the ruins. Jim was prepared to have to endure these--he remembered being dragged to the opera as a child--but found that in its natural habitat, opera was hardly the stuffy experience he remembered. One night they were taken to an organ concert at one of the big churches, and hearing the voices of the pipes echoing through the stone vaults of the darkened chamber made both Jim and Jacob understand why it was called the 'King of Instruments.'

One morning, several days into their stay, Alain took them to a walkway along the roof of the Apostolic Palaces. Tourists were, of course, not normally taken there, but somehow Alain had wangled special passes for them.

"That's the Porta Sant'Anna--St. Anne's Gate. The little church there is the parish church for the few hundred souls who live in Vatican City proper. The gate is where Vatican workers who live outside the walls come to work. There's the barracks for the Swiss Guard.

"What are those official-looking cars there?"

"There's going to be a little gathering at the Pontifical Biblical Institute; some big names in Biblical Archaeology will be attending. Including my humble self. Most of the sessions will be intensely dull for you two--yes, even for you, Jacob. Biblical Archaeology was never your specialty. But I do want you to come to a couple events."

Jim stiffened like a hound catching scent of a rabbit.

"What is it, Jim?" asked Jacob anxiously.

"Getting out of the car. That's Hamilton. Alain, are you trying to tempt me into causing an international incident?"

"No, Jim. I'm trying to stop one; or create one of my own, depending on one's point of view. It is vitally important that you follow my lead the next few days. Tonight is a reception for the distinguished participants; I want you there as my guests. Hamilton will be there, but please, Jim, don't start anything. If he brings up Cascade, please give him the impression that you are no longer interested in him as a suspect. I'll not ask you to lie, of course, but you can misdirect or--as Blair used to say--obfuscate."

The next few days they didn't see Alain; their guides continued to take them to places of interest in and around the Eternal City. Then, one night, while they were dining in a _trattoria_ in the Trastevere, Alain joined them. He was wearing a rather shabby, dusty cassock. He wasn't exactly in disguise, but to the causal observer he seemed like any poor parish priest in the neighborhood--a foreigner, as was not uncommon in this international city, but otherwise unremarkable. He sat down with them and helped himself to some bread. Snagging a waiter, he gave an order in rapid Italian. Anyone familiar with Italian dialects would realize that he was speaking not the Florentine taught in schools, nor the Neapolitan beloved of singers, but in the dialect of the Eternal City. Startled at the foreigner's command of the local idiom, the waiter hastened to fill his order.

"It will happen tonight. This can take place without you, but I want you to see it. A guide will come late tonight. Follow him and obey."

The guide turned out to be a Sergeant of the Swiss Guards who spoke little English; Jim's French was more than sufficient, however. The Sergeant lead them through the gardens and into a warren of corridors; they could not be sure if they were below or above ground, and they soon lost all sense of direction. Soon they came to a large niche, curtained off from the main hall. The Sergeant indicated that they were to conceal themselves in the niche, and pointed to a peephole in the wall. He disappeared briefly, returning with a low stool for Jacob to stand on. The latter took it and climbed up, muttering something about the inverse ratio of height and brains.

Looking through the peephole, they saw a conference room of some sort. Several people--men and women, of a variety of nationalities, mostly middle-aged or elderly, were seated around the table, chatting quietly in several languages. More entered from time to time; it seemed that they all knew one another. Jacob let out a low hiss when he noticed Hamilton enter and take a seat between a silver-haired, aristocratic-looking Englishwoman and a short, plump gentleman who was either French or Belgian. Neither looked particularly happy to see him. The Frenchman pointedly turned his back on him to speak to the Egyptian seated on his other side. The Englishwoman said something which Jacob could not catch, although Jim's Sentinel hearing probably picked it up, for he smiled and suppressed a laugh with some difficulty. Whatever she said, Hamilton's face turned red, then pale, and he sat rigidly in his chair, staring at nothing in particular.

Jim heard a familiar step coming down the hall; soon even Jacob could hear it. With a great crash the door of the conference room flew open and Alain bounded in.

"I hold in my hand evidence of a traitor in our midst," he intoned, waiving a bundle of papers in the air. He began distributing the sheets, practically throwing them. All the time he was shouting facts and figures.

"And what does this all point to? It points to. . . . . . YOU!"

Hamilton attempted to rise; the Belgian historian grabbed his arm. The man punched him, and broke away. A Spanish archaeologist tackled him. He struggled free and almost made it to the door. Alain Reynolds leapt onto the table and then launched himself in a flying side-kick, which struck the man between the shoulder-blades. His head impacted on the hard wood of the door, and he slid down to the floor like a bag of wet oatmeal. Alain touched his throat.

"He's alive, but he'll have a headache."

Producing a silk handkerchief, he reached into the unconscious man's jacket and pulled out a gun.

"This man's crimes," intoned the Jesuit, "are not against any one nation, nor against any one person or group of people. They are against the common cultural heritage of humankind, particularly that of the Judeo-Christian tradition. Accordingly, the Holy See claims jurisdiction. This man is a citizen of the Republic of Ireland and of the United States of America; the American and Irish Legations to the Holy See will be informed forthwith. Honored colleagues, this conference is dismissed. Please go to your assigned quarters. A representative of the Apostolic Prosecutor's Office will take your statements."

The two Vatican Gendarmes who had been stationed outside the door took the unconscious man away. Jim and Jacob joined Alain and the Jesuit in the conference room.

"He could have been a great contributor to our understanding of the past," said the Jesuit, "He had a place in our fellowship. He was respected."

"I don't understand," said the Jacob, "Why? Money?"

"That was part of it. It was also love . . .of a sort."

"How so?"

"Dragon-hunger, some have called it. The desire to have. Not to study, not to share with others, not even to appreciate the beauty. Just to have. It would come under the heading of Avarice, probably, with elements of Envy, Luxury, and Pride."

"I hardly ever noticed him," said the Jesuit, "He was a curator for a large American museum. He always seemed to be at the edge of things."

"Yes. That was part of his problem. He is an insignificant little man. He felt it, and it gave him an inner glow to know, when he heard us fretting over the problems of the antika trade, that he was a part of the problem—a large part."

"What made you suspect him?"

"Oh, a great many little things. Mainly, when you asked me to take this up, and I agreed, I could see everyone in the mirror on the wall behind you. Everyone else relaxed. He tensed up. Of course, that was not proof, but it told me where to begin."

The trial was a ninety-day wonder. First, of course, Hamilton denied all charges. Second he denied that the Vatican had any jurisdiction. The Ambassadors of several other countries that might have had jurisdiction filed briefs to the effect that their countries did not renounce jurisdiction, but that they would acknowledge the Vatican's concurrent jurisdiction, and would grant priority to the Vatican's prosecution. Only the United States protested, and that was really only _pro forma_.

Fr. Alain Reynolds' role was never made public. As he was not a direct witness, he was not even asked to testify. He did attend the trial, accredited as a journalist for the **Biblical Archeological Review**. Sitting with him were two Americans, one with a bearing the screamed 'military', and the other who looked like some sort of academic; both seemed interested in the proceedings.

Hamilton was convicted, and was sentenced to a period of confinement in a remote monastery. The judge noted that, if he tried to escape, Italy and the Vatican had an agreement that made confinement in a secular Italian prison an option, and that, furthermore, any other countries who had charges against him could request his extradition.

The antika trade did not stop, of course; however, a major ring had been broken up. While the leader was taken care of by the Vatican, various other countries arrested and tried some of the other conspirators. Furthermore, the various national authorities began to take the antika trade seriously, along with other forms of illegal commerce.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Well, Jim," said Jacob as they re-entered the loft, "before all this, did you have any idea of the ramifications of archaeology?"

"Not really, Chief. I'd certainly heard of the illegal antiquities trade--but I had no idea how big it was."

"Frankly, neither did I. It loomed large on my intellectual landscape, but I thought it was just my perspective as an anthropologist and an archaeologist. If I'd ever thought of it, I'd have said it was probably small potatoes next to other forms of contraband. I feel a little bad about letting a murderer slip through our fingers like that, though."

"Well, Chief, look at it this way: by the time all the various countries that want him are done with him, he'll have served as much time as he would have for the murder, so it all evens out."

At that point the telephone rang. Jim picked it up.

"ELLISON!" came the Banks Bellow, which even Jacob could hear.

"Yes, sir," said Jim, holding the instrument away from his ear.

"A body was found in Tyler's Creek--or what's left of one. They think it might be that banker's daughter, the one who disappeared from the Debutantes' Ball; its been kicked from Homicide to Major Crimes. We need you and Sandburg on the double."

"Yes, sir. We'll be right there."

"Here we go again!" said Sandburg.

****

=end=

   [1]: web2575@charweb.org
   [2]: www.canemasters.com
   [3]: www.eus.wsu.edu/edp
   [4]: www.sfaa.net
   [5]: http://anthap.oakland.edu/



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